


Present Tense

by Punchdrunkdoc



Series: Present Tense [1]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Angst, Canon, Character Study, F/M, Fluff, Olicity Fic Big Bang, PTSD, Romance, Summer Hiatus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-18
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-07 11:14:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 29,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5454581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Punchdrunkdoc/pseuds/Punchdrunkdoc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Oliver Queen of the season 4 premiere was lighter, happier and more at peace than we’ve ever seen him. What happened in those 5 months away to get him to that point? And who helped him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic came about because I was a little annoyed by the writers’ implications that Oliver was now ‘cured’ of his PTSD. So I wrote a fill-in-the-blanks for the summer hiatus in which some of Oliver’s past traumas are addressed and his deepening relationship with Felicity is explored.
> 
> I don't have any personal experience with PTSD or mental illness but I've tried my hardest to approach this topic with sensitivity and care.

 

“Oliver, don’t leave.”

The tone of her voice stopped him. 

She’d said the words several times over the past few days, with increasing exasperation and desperation. But this time her voice broke on his name and tears soaked the words. Adding weight to the syllables, so they fell into the space between them like bricks.

He rested his forehead against the cool dry wood of the front door, and gripped the handle in his fist. All he needed to do was pull down and the door would swing open; his feet could hit the pavement, one step after another, the cadence building until he was at a run. 

Running away. 

Running from this life that he _wants_ , with the woman he wants to spend it with.

It’s just….some days that life feels like a façade. A paper mache construction, built over the cracks in his foundation.   

He doesn't deserve this. 

He’s a killer. 

A liar. 

A broken man. 

He has blood on his hands and scars on his soul. 

The cumulative sins of his past smothered the air between the freshly painted walls of their home, suffocating him. “I’m sorry. I can’t- I have to get out of here.”  

She stopped him again. This time without words. Her small, delicate hand came to rest on his, where he still had the door handle in a white-knuckled grip. Her touch was soft. Tentative. So unlike the casual tactile affection he’d come to expect from her over the past couple of months. 

He did this. Put this distance and hesitancy between them. 

Again.  

Last year it was his words that pushed her away _(“I thought I could be me and the Arrow, but I can’t”)._ This time, his silence.  

“You need to get out, get some air? Fine, come out back. We’ll sit on the patio. All the fresh air nature can provide. Just, please…talk to me. You’ve been avoiding me since you- since Monday. We haven’t slept in the same bed; all you do is run until you’re exhausted. We need to talk about this. Please, Oliver,” she pleaded.

He screwed his eyes shut and forced his head harder against the door until the pressure was a dull pain. An inadequate penance for reducing this strong, loyal, wonderful woman to begging. 

It was a herculean task, but he relaxed his grip on the handle, lifted his head and stepped away from the door. He owed her this. He once told her that he’d do anything she asked of him. 

He could do this.   

When he finally turned to her, the look on her face pierced him harder than any weapon. Pale skin and wet cheeks and eyes that brimmed with fear and love and tears.  

He gave her a quick nod and a tight-lipped smile but when the hand she was resting over his fell away, he didn’t try to catch it. As he followed her out to their backyard, there was still distance between them.  

The fresh air and open space allowed him to take his first full breath in what felt like hours. He heard the sound of a distant lawn mower, a dog barking, birds singing in the trees. The anachronism was striking. He felt like a horror villain stepping into the Technicolor world of a Disney cartoon. 

But just a couple of weeks ago, he’d manned the barbecue at the bottom of the garden; beer in hand, he’d chatted to one of their neighbours about the baseball game the previous night. Felicity had interrupted to hand him a tray of uncooked sausages, “You man. Use fire. Cook meat.” She’d growled in a terrible Neanderthal impression, mocking the time honoured tradition of men cooking on grills. He’d laughed and shot her a wry look (since he did all the cooking for them, not just the kind that involved open flame and charcoal) and she’d scampered away, grinning, to rejoin the rest of the ‘Welcome to the Neighbourhood’ party milling on the patio.  

He’d been happy then. As at ease and relaxed as he could get in unfamiliar surroundings, with new people. He hadn’t felt like an impostor. He’d felt like Oliver Queen. And not the spoiled Ollie of his youth, nor the veneer of a civilised man he’d donned on his return from Lian Yu. He’d felt…real. Grown up. Grounded and anchored in his skin. 

But lately…that anchor had slipped. He’d felt increasingly disconnected from his surroundings. Mired in the past instead of enjoying the present.  

On Monday, the line between the two had blurred.  

And Felicity had paid the price.  

She sat on the love seat on the patio and watched him quietly, her knees drawn up to her chest. His gaze caught the faint, finger-shaped bruises which marred the pale skin of her forearm and he winced.   

She sighed and tugged down the sleeves of her sweater, “Oliver, stop it. I told you, it doesn’t even hurt.”

“That’s not the point, Felicity”

“So what is the point? Explain to me.” She beckoned to the empty spot beside her, “Sit down and tell me what’s been going on inside that thick skull of yours.”

They’d spent hours on that love seat the first night they’d moved in. His legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles; hers dangling over his as she’d curled into his side, her head on his shoulder. They’d sipped champagne in celebration and talked about their plans. What furniture they needed to buy to supplement the existing stuff from their landlord; what colour they’d paint the walls, to make it feel more like their place and not merely a rental. Who would mow the lawn. Who would clean the bathroom.  

Now she was curled into herself and he sat rigidly at the edge of the seat. A foot of air between them, dense with tension and anxiety. 

“I don’t know what’s going on with me,” he finally admitted. “When we left Starling, I felt happier than I had in years. I felt…free. And when we were travelling, things were great. But now…I thought I just needed to adjust to settling in one place. But it’s getting worse.”

“What’s getting worse?”

She knew. She’d been there, right beside him, as he thrashed in his sleep. She’d been there to calm him when he jolted awake, choking on air, covered in sweat. She’d been there to coax him back to the present when he was lost to his surroundings, lost to the past. 

He communicated all of this to her in a look but she didn’t let him off the hook. “You need to say it out loud, Oliver. Admit it. Get it out in the open and we’ll deal with it”.

“You want me to admit that I’m fucked in the head?” He asked, with bitter self-loathing. “After all the crap I put you through last year…at least I managed to give you a nice vacation before you’re back to dealing with this mess,” he gestured at himself, then bent forward to rest his elbows on his thighs. He stared straight out into the garden, unable to face her.“ You should get out now, before I do even more damage.”

“No!” she shouted, and his head whipped around to see that, yeah, she was definitely angry. “You do not get to push me away again. You did that all last year and look where it got you – with a severe hair cut and a lesbian wife.”

He grimaced. It wasn’t the first time she’d referenced his ill-fated Nanda Parbat marriage during an argument. She always phrased it in a flippant way but he knew that was to hide the very real hurt and betrayal that…incident…had caused. 

“I came into this relationship with eyes very wide open. And I love you. All aspects of you. The killer and the hero. The good and the bad. Oliver, you literally threw me in a dungeon and made me think you were going to kill me. If I could love Al Sah-him, I can love the survivor who is struggling at the moment to deal with this.” 

“I don’t even know what _this_ is,” he exclaimed, his voice having risen in pitch to meet hers.

“Yes, you do, Oliver. And you need to admit it to yourself.”

He scrubbed his hands over his face then brought them around to grip the back of his neck. His gaze landed on the concrete slab between his feet. And he blinked. 

Breathed in. Then out. 

“PTSD,” he whispered. 

She sighed in relief and brought her hand up to stroke over his back. Her touch more confident now. Sure in the knowledge that she was getting through to him. To her Oliver. 

“PTSD” she echoed. 

“But..Its been years since I left the island-“

“It’s not just about the island Oliver! From the moment you set foot back in Starling you were waging a war. You were fighting. You were fighting Malcolm, Slade, Ra’s. Even when you weren’t under the hood, you were fighting everyone’s expectations of Oliver Queen”. 

“This,” she gestured to their house, their yard, the life they were building together, “is your homecoming. This is you finally back to civilisation. To normality, for the first time in years. You’re safe here. But that knowledge is conflicting with your instincts. To see threats and not people, to be wary of your surroundings, to always be waiting for the next ambush. You have to retrain yourself to accept this new life and be comfortable here.”

“I just….I thought this would be easier. That by being with you, I could finally be…human again.”

“I know I’m awesome in bed but I don’t have a magical vagina! I can’t be your cure, Oliver. We may have driven off into the literal sunset together - and kudos for the timing of that, very romantic - but real life doesn’t fade to black after the happy ever after. This is just something we have to work through. But I think…” her voice trailed off and she bit her lip. 

But then he saw her gather her courage; she took both his hands in hers and looked him in the eye. “I think you need help. More help than I can give you. But you have to be willing to fight this, Oliver. And you have to fight for us.”

His breath caught and he felt a chill run down his spine. What did she mean? Fight for their relationship? Were they really at risk over this? It was his greatest fear – that his past actions and experiences would never permit any sort of lasting happiness. That he’d forever be paying penance and would never be capable of living a normal life.And that Felicity would realise this…and walk away. 

“Hey! Stop!” She must have sensed the direction of his thoughts because she grasped his face in her hands and captured his panic-stricken gaze, “I didn’t mean fight for _us_ , us, I meant you had to be the one willing to fight - I can’t do it for you.” She huffed and rolled her eyes, annoyed at herself for scaring him, then muttered under her breath “I knew I should have made a powerpoint for this.”

When she brought her eyes back to meet his, he smiled at her, a small grin of relief and affection. 

“Look,” she continued, smiling in return, “I’m not going anywhere. I’m with you till the end of the line, Bucky. But there is only so much I can do - in the bedroom and out of it - to help you through this.”

She turned serious again and used the hands still on his face to guide his forehead against hers. His arms wrapped around her waist, fingers tight on her back, bunched in the material of her sweater. He couldn’t believe that only a short time ago he was on the verge of running from this. Why had he been denying himself the benediction of her touch? The salve of her words. 

“You are carrying around so much guilt and pain, Oliver, “ she whispered. “And I don’t believe you’ll ever be fully rid of it. But you need to find a way to deal with it.”

He closed his eyes. And though he’d have rather remained oblivious to the world beyond the touch of her skin, beyond their small nest of intimacy, her words sparked a series of images behind his closed lids. 

The shipwreck. 

The island. 

The torture and the killing. 

His father. His mother. Shado. Tommy. Sara. 

His victims. 

His failures. 

He wasn’t carrying these burdens as much as he was a dam holding back the river of memories and the pain, grief and shame they threatened to drown him with. 

His mission in Starling, being the Arrow, had added a layer of fortitude to his defences, even as the river rose in height. 

But being here…he’d let his guard down. The water had started to leak through the cracks he’d left unattended and he was at risk of drowning in the deluge

Unless he found a way to calm the waters. 

To shore up the cracks. 

To cope.

 

\------------------------

 

The office was huge. 

Part of a warehouse conversion development that predated the uprising of the trendy cafés and boutiques that surrounded it, it was surprisingly warm. The furniture was of good quality (a large imposing mahogany desk near the door, solid bookcases all along one wall, a full-sized pool table in the corner) but nowhere near brand new. The dark green couch Oliver perched on was comfortable and lived-in. He could feel the echo of the many people who had sat here before him, in the indents in the butter-soft leather and the frayed edges of the small hole in the arm rest – a magnet for anxious, fidgeting fingers. Intellectually he knew he wasn’t the first person to ever seek help for this kind of…problem…but the tangible proof that he was not alone, that this was a routine thing for Dr Martin Clark, was somewhat comforting.  

Martin – as he insisted on being called – was also a reassuring presence and matched his office space perfectly. Neat greying hair, a sturdy build and wearing well tailored-clothing, he came across as professional but warm and sincere. He’d greeted Oliver with a smile and a firm handshake, before leading him over to the couch by the window. 

He was currently in the process of fixing himself a cup of tea, in the small kitchenette area. “Are you sure I can’t get you anything, Oliver?” he asked, his subtle Scottish accent rolling the ‘r’ in his name slightly. 

Felicity had been excited when they’d read the biography on his website. “Oooh Scottish! I wonder if he knows Peter Capaldi.”

“Who?” Oliver had queried.

“Exactly!” She’d smiled and pressed a quick kiss to his forehead. She’d looked so delighted that he didn’t have the heart to tell her he had no clue what she was talking about.

To say he’d been reluctant to seek professional help was a massive understatement. But Felicity had shot down every reason (or excuse, as she’d called it) for not going to a therapist. 

_Can’t trust a stranger?_   She’ll do an in-depth background check (using both legal and illegal means). 

_What if the therapist was blackmailed or bribed for his information?_ She’ll make sure they don’t have any debts or hidden secrets that can be exploited. 

He’d started to feel pressured at that point. Backed into a corner. It was one thing to admit to her, the woman he loved, that he wasn’t coping with his past…he didn’t think he could bring himself to talk to a stranger about it.

“Oliver,” she’d said. “You can tell me anything, you know that. And I think finally talking about some of the stuff you went through will be so good for you. But me listening to you can only do so much. There are…techniques…a therapist can teach you to change the way you react to things, to help you gain control of your memories and how they affect you.”

It was clear she’d been researching this for a while. And that realisation brought with it a fresh wave of guilt. When she should have been enjoying their new life in the suburbs, away from all the darkness and danger of the past year, she’d been worrying about him. She’d obviously spent hours looking up his symptoms online, coming up with solutions and figuring out a way to confront him about it.  

That she would do that for him…that she loved him that much…It made him want to be a better man for her. A man less encumbered by his past, who was able to enjoy the simple pleasures in life without constantly feeling like it was going to end in blood and tears and death.  

And she believed he could do this. Learn to deal with his past in a healthier way. “Look at it this way,” she’d reasoned “You’ve been getting physical therapy for your knee because it’s a bit worn out from the years of abuse, and you finally have some time to deal with it. This is no different.”

He couldn’t really argue when she was being so damned logical. So he’d relented. And they’d spent the day after the ‘intervention’ (as she called it), researching their options. 

Which is how he came to be sitting in the huge, but surprisingly cosy, office of Dr Martin Clark, specialist in combat-related PTSD resolution therapy. 

For her, it seemed, he really would do anything. 

“So why are you here, Oliver?” Martin asked, interrupting his musing. He was sitting in the armchair across from Oliver, legs crossed and cup of tea perched on his knee. 

Oliver took a deep breath, “I’m here because I need help.”

Martin smiled at him, patently sensing the enormous admission that short sentence represented. But Oliver still couldn’t bring himself to relax. He hovered at the edge of the sofa, interlaced fingers clenched as they rested on his lap. One leg bounced up and down, his foot beating out a nervous staccato on the carpeted floor. 

He’d once sat perfectly still behind the lens of a sniper rifle for hours waiting for a target; he’d regularly balanced on the edge of rooftops high above the city, and he’d waded into battle with no hint of nerves…and yet, sitting in this office, in front of this harmless civilian, he was an anxious wreck.

And he obviously wasn’t hiding it well. Martin relaxed back into his armchair, trying to create as small a silhouette as possible. The encouraging smile on his face remained, and there was no hint of insincerity in it. 

“Oliver, let me try to put your mind at ease. I’m not here to interrogate you. I’m not here to judge you. I’m here to listen. And the type of therapy I practice is effective without me ever knowing the specific details of the trauma that’s affecting you.”  

Oliver sighed in relief. His main concern about seeking help from a stranger was exposing his alter ego – the vigilante killer. Felicity had tried to tell him that it was his responses to the past that were important, not the actual events, but hearing it from the doctor himself was reassuring. 

“You mentioned during our phone conversation that your main problems at present are nightmares and flashbacks. You also described an element of emotional numbing - feeling detached and less interested in previously enjoyed activities. Then there are the arousal symptoms, as we call them - increased anger and irritability and feeling constantly on guard. Does that sound about right?” Martin asked.

Oliver nodded, a little overwhelmed at hearing his afflictions recited in such a matter-of-fact way. 

“These are very common problems for people who have suffered significant trauma, and there is no shame in it,” Martin continued, still trying to put him at ease. “Now, how long have you been experiencing these symptoms?” 

Since Monday, Oliver mused, when he woke from a nightmare to find Felicity’s forearm encased in his vice-like grip. There had been pain in her eyes as she kneeled next to him on their bed, but her voice had been gentle, coaxing him back to reality, back to her…

Since last month, when the neighbour’s Rottweiler suddenly started barking at him as he passed their drive. His pulse had rocketed and his instincts had been on high alert for hours afterward…

Since Positano, when an overwhelming sense of dread had hit him at the tour guide’s suggestion of a boat trip…

Since the mountain, when he was run through with a sword and kicked into an endless cold abyss…

Since his mother fell beside him, bleeding from her chest, to the sounds of  Thea’s screams…

Since Tommy, and a desperate plea to open his eyes, to get up, to live…

Since the life raft, when his father put the gun to his head…

Since the Gambit went down…

“Years,” he finally managed to choke out. “Eight years.”


	2. Chapter 2

Oliver pulled into the driveway and parked the car, shutting off the engine. The traffic bulletin on the radio fell silent and the motion sensor lights above the garage flicked on, ready to guide his path to the door. But he remained in the vehicle, reflecting on his first therapy session.

He’d left Martin’s office feeling a strange mixture of relief and despair. Admitting to himself the full extent of his trauma had felt like a weight off his back…but, at the same time, the ensuing battle to overcome it seemed… insurmountable.

Martin had ended the hour on an optimistic note, certain that he could be of help to Oliver. He’d even uttered the cliched phrase _“Admitting you have a problem is the hard part.”_  

Oliver wasn’t so sure about that. Unpacking and reliving all that he’d gone through since he was a spoiled brat tossed into the cold North China Sea… _that_ was going to be the hard part.   

And the enormity of the task left him feeling drained.  

When he finally entered their house, his footsteps leaden, shoulders drooping, all he wanted to do was crawl into bed with Felicity and lose himself in the warmth of her skin, then sleep through the dying sunlight of the afternoon.

He found her in the upstairs bathroom, her delectable behind facing the door as she knelt on the floor, scrubbing at the toilet. She was dressed in her cleaning outfit – black leggings, a cropped MIT sweatshirt (which had crept up her back, exposing creamy smooth skin and a distinct lack of a bra) and a colourful scarf tied like a headband to keep her short hair off her face.

The fact that she had a ‘cleaning outfit’ was adorable to him. And he loved that he knew her this well. He’d come to realise early on in their friendship that despite all her babbling and chatter, she was a surprisingly private person. For years, her background, her childhood, her _life_ outside their mission was a mystery to him. And the more he was drawn to her, the more he wanted to know about her. He latched upon every scrap of personal information she doled out, eager to flesh out his understanding of this amazing girl. And now that they were together, she’d opened up to him. Let down some of her walls. 

And he’d discovered more about her in the past three months than in all the years he’d known her. 

For instance, he knew about her cleaning outfit. Knew that she’d had the sweatshirt since her freshman year and that she’d cut off the bottom when it was burnt during a soldering mishap. And he also knew the first words out of her mouth were going to be a complaint about cleaning.

She didn’t disappoint. She turned to look at him over her shoulder with a scowl, blowing a piece of recalcitrant hair out of her eyes, “Why did we choose a house with two bathrooms? It’s just twice the number of toilets to clean!”

“I keep telling you we can hire a cleaner,” he replied. 

They’ve had this exact debate several times since they moved in. But she’s not as comfortable with ‘servants’ as ‘Mr Billionaire-who-practically-grew-up-in-a-castle’, especially when she didn’t have a full time job as an excuse for delegating the housework. He also suspected she felt guilty that she didn’t pull her weight in the kitchen. So once a week, she would put on the cleaning outfit and blitz the house, complaining at every step.  

“I needed the distraction today, since you wouldn’t let me come with you,” she admitted, in a distinct departure from their usual script. She rested back on her heels, rubber-gloved hands clenched in her lap as she looked up at him nervously. “How did it go?”

His mood had improved slightly in her presence – when didn’t it? – but he still felt the call of their sinfully comfortable bed. So he pulled her to her feet and peeled off the gloves, then led her down the hall to their bedroom. 

They fell on top of the covers and gravitated into each others arms without conscious thought. Side by side, legs entwined, they breathed in each other’s presence for several long moments. 

“Are you OK?” she asked, her voice a whisper in deference to the intimacy of their embrace. 

“I don’t know,” he admitted. He explained to her the doubts that had plagued him since leaving the doctor’s office. 

But, as usual, she was his voice of reason. “Oliver, you’re not starting from scratch here. The man I met three years ago was cold and isolated, and bit of a jerk, to be honest. But you’ve changed so much. You have friends, people who rely on you and look up to you. You’re the one who makes the effort to get to know our neighbours and you told me yourself you’ve smiled and laughed more in the past few months than you can remember.

“Most people would have given up after one day on that island. You lasted in that life for five years. And when you came home, you became a hero. You should be _so_ proud of the man you are - and the man you’re becoming. I am.”

She leaned in to kiss him. Lips parted and pressed softly against his. Not a kiss of passion. Not a prelude. Just an expression of her love. 

“You’ve come so far already, Oliver. You just need a bit of help to deal with the lingering effects of all you’ve been through. And I know you can do it.”

Her belief in him was staggering - and it had always been so. When he was nothing more than her boss’ son, gracing her office with fake charm and deceit, she’d trusted him and believed in him.  

And she always managed to make him see things in a different light. He _had_ changed. He barely recognised the broken, bitter man that had returned to Starling.

When the Queen’s Gambit had capsized and he’d been thrown into the ice-cold, stormy sea, the disorientation had been terrifying. He’d been upended, unable to find the surface; tossed about in the tumultuous waters, all the while hitting against rocks and debris from the boat, until he finally gasped his way, bruised and battered, to the life raft. 

But…in a way, he never really escaped that storm. Those had been five years of confusion and disorientation, of barely keeping his head above water. And all the pain and torture and killing, all the people he’d encountered…they’d battered at him like the debris in the water. Chipping away at his humanity, eroding his soul. Until he was nothing but hard, flint edges.

During his years as a vigilante, he’d remained in the water - still subject to the current around him and at the mercy of unexpected waves. Occasionally he’d find his footing, but then he’d be upended again.

The difference was, the people around him weren’t weathering him further. They weren’t taking more pieces from him. Instead, they were smoothing out his rough edges. Polishing away the cracks left by years of trauma. 

Diggle, through his trust and friendship, had helped him see beyond his dark crusade.

Tommy’s death had inspired him to change from a killer to a hero.

Felicity’s faith had given him the conviction to defeat his enemies. And her love had opened up his heart.

Thea’s affection… 

Roy’s loyalty… 

Barry’s respect…all the people in his life had helped shape him into the man he was today. 

He was still a work in progress, and there was still darkness in the recesses of his soul…but he could get better. 

He wanted to get better. 

With a few words, Felicity had replaced despondency with hope.And he loved her for it, so much.

He pulled her closer and pressed his lips to hers, trying to convey the depth of that love through a kiss. She sighed into his mouth and her hand came up to curl around his neck. He deepened the kiss as he moved over her, his hips finding the cradle of hers. 

His lips dragged across her cheek towards that spot – his spot – on her neck. He pressed kisses there as he grew intoxicated on her scent, which was always stronger in this little patch of skin. He’d missed her during his self-imposed exile. Missed her touch and her kiss and her …everything. How had he resisted this for days?

“Love you,” he muttered between kisses, “love you so much.”

“I love you too,” she replied. 

As she brought her hands up to frame his face, he caught sight of the bruises circling her forearm.Resting his weight on one arm, he took her hand in the gentlest of grips and brought his lips to the discolored skin in silent apology. 

“It’s okay,” she whispered and pulled her hand from his. She sifted her fingers through his hair and brought his lips back to hers. “It’s okay,” she repeated, the words barely more than a sigh passed from her lips to his.

The kiss deepened. A new level of intensity. Clothes were shed with desperate clumsy movements until they were finally skin to skin. 

Her thighs gripped his narrow hips and she used her leverage to pull him against her. She thrust against his cock in little grinding movements, moaning with the pressure.

Then she let out a breathy giggle.

“What?” he asked, pushing up on his arms to catch her eyes. 

They were glazed with lust, but twinkled with amusement as she asked impishly, “Is it time for your daily dose of my magic vagina?”

He huffed out a laugh then kissed her, the mood lifting. 

Sex had never been this fun before. 

In the beginning, just after they’d escaped Starling, there had been a lot of desperate, hard fucks with grasping hands and bites and the need to prove the other was really there. That they were finally together.

Make-up sex, with its unique flavour of anger and relief, was also a common theme during those first few weeks, as they hashed out their issues over his actions as Al Sah-him.

Sometimes it was pure lust – the years of unresolved tension between them barely slaked by a few months together. He’d be set off by the slope of her neck or the curve of her ass; she was usually the instigator after his morning workouts, his sweaty torso apparently irresistible. 

Then there were the lazy early mornings, taking advantage of his physiology and her warm soft presence before either of them were fully awake.

Occasionally it was planned, with sexy lingerie and candles…

But more often than not, it was just…them. Connecting. A physical dialogue filled with love and passion and laughter.  

He would lose himself in her, and find himself in her. 

And whether it was fun or intense or soul shattering or dirty, it was all just…perfect. 

Because it was them. 


	3. Chapter 3

“You seem remarkably well adjusted for someone who’s experienced so much – and I have a feeling I’m only hearing a fraction of what you went through,” Martin said, with some admiration. 

It was their third session together. Oliver had told him about the shipwreck and his father’s death, and the fact that he’d floated in the raft with the body for days before reaching Lian Yu. He’d admitted that he’d had help on the island but survival had still been a daily struggle. The spoiled boy who’d washed up on shore had been moulded into a man through hunger, fear and pain, and the basic human will to endure.  

He was surprisingly comfortable sharing these things with the other man.Martin wasn’t much older than Oliver, but he had an aura of maturity – an old soul - like he had settled in his skin at a much younger age. He had a deliberate way of speaking too – smooth and slow (likely in an attempt not to confuse people with his accent), with no hesitations or interjections. He took the time to think about what he wanted to say, and always managed to phrase things in just the right way. 

He was just easy to be around. A calming presence. With no air of authority that rankled Oliver’s controlling side. 

Oliver trusted him.   

“What would you say has helped you get to where you are today?” Martin asked.

Oliver recalled his conversation with Felicity after his first session, when she’d helped him see how far he had come over the past few years. She was such a big part of that journey. 

“My…girlfriend…helped a lot. Felicity has always seen something in me, a better version of myself. She believed in me when I couldn’t see beyond the…damage I’d caused. And she always made me smile, even when I was at my lowest point,” he finished with a shrug, knowing he hadn’t adequately expressed just how fundamental she’d been in shaping the person he’d become. 

“You smiled when you said the word ‘girlfriend’,” Martin remarked, with a small grin of his own.

Oliver laughed, “It’s fairly new, and still a bit strange, I guess. We actually started out as co-workers. Then we were friends, for a long time before we got together. But there was always something about her…now she’s my best friend. The woman I can easily imagine spending the rest of my life with, having children with…”

“You seem surprised by that admission.”

“I am, and I’m not,” he replied, shaking his head. “It’s kind of hard to explain.”

“Give it a try. Working through things out loud can often help clarify your thought processes.”

“I guess it’s not so much surprise, as it is…relief. That I can imagine a future at all. Last year was…hard. I lost friends, my sense of self, my purpose…”

“Are you saying you felt suicidal?” Martin asked carefully.

“No,” Oliver replied automatically, but he could feel the lie in the words as they left his lips. “Not actively,” he tried to clarify, “but I would put myself in dangerous situations where there was a high chance I might not survive.”

“A deathwish?”

“I don’t know. I never saw it like that at the time. But looking back…I took it upon myself to take risks in order to protect the people I love. Because maybe I felt, if anyone should die, it should be me.”

“What changed?”

“I learned to trust in other people, and their abilities. And after a year of losing everything important to me, I…gained…Felicity. And she was enough to balance that out.”

“And now you can imagine a future with her.”

“Yeah. And If you knew the lengths I’ve gone to in the past to avoid commitment…” Oliver said bitterly, shaking his head.

“You’ve expressed disappointment - even disgust - with your younger self a few times in these sessions,” Martin prompted.

“Yeah, I was a spoiled, selfish dick,” Oliver said bluntly. “I took nothing seriously and I didn’t treat the people in my life with the care I should have.”

“Okay, so here’s a thought experiment for you: What would the 30-year old version of that Oliver be like?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Your younger self was carefree, and careless. He was privileged in more ways than one, with the world at his feet. Do you believe he would have grown out of that reckless phase? Settled down? Become an upstanding citizen?”

“Maybe, maybe not. But what does it matter? I’m not that guy anymore.”

“Exactly!” Martin said. He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward in his chair. “You are not even a different version of him. You are a completely separate person. And I’d wager you’re a different person now, from the one who returned to Starling City three years ago. That’s what significant trauma can do. It…interrupts the narrative of your life. Changes the plot. People who recover from trauma don’t come out the other end healed, they come out _different_. You need to understand this so you can forgive yourself – both for your youthful indiscretions and for what you had to do to survive.”

Oliver let that sink in. It was true, the pre-island Ollie felt so far removed from who he was now. Like a rough pencil sketch beneath layers of complex brush strokes. And aspects of the hard, callous man beneath the hood of the vigilante remained in his character, but he knew he had grown beyond him as well.

“Tell me a little about your reintegration into civilian life,” Martin prompted.

“I wasn’t a soldier, Martin,” Oliver said with a wry smile.

“Close enough, Oliver,” he replied. “I imagine there was a disconnect between the person your family expected you to be and the one they were faced with. And vice-versa, of course.”

He thought back to those first few weeks at home. Tommy had expected him to pick up where they’d left off, even though they’d both obviously matured beyond their childish antics.

Thea had practically been a stranger to him. A rebellious teen with his baby sister’s sweet brown eyes.

His mother…there had been so many secrets between them. Too many. It was only in the days before she’d died that they’d finally accepted each other for who they truly were.

With Laurel...even now, he doubted she could truly see beyond ‘Ollie’ and the years of heartache he’d caused her.

And Lance…he’d struggled for that man’s acceptance and forgiveness in vain.

“Yeah, to put it mildly,” Oliver said in answer to the doctor’s statement. “But I’m actually in a place now where the most important people in my life know who I really am.” He thought of Thea, and how much closer they’d grown since he’d revealed his identity to her.

“That’s good. And remember, the people who can’t see the man you’ve become, who can’t see how much you’ve changed and grown - that’s their issue. Not yours.”

“I’ll...try to keep that in mind.”  

“Now tell me, I’m curious, did Felicity know you before the island?”

“No, thank God!” Oliver laughed. “She would have hated me."

“So she’s only met this version of you? Oliver 2.0?”

“Yeah. She’s aware of my past, and that I was a shitty boyfriend. But I’m different with her. Everything’s different with her.”

“She’s obviously a big part of your life, and a big motivation for you to seek help.”

“Isn’t that frowned upon though, to do this for someone else and not for yourself?” Oliver asked.

“In some circumstances, perhaps. But, do you remember what you said when I asked why you came to me?”

“I said I needed help.”

“What else did you say?”

Oliver thought back to that morning last week. And he remembered how he’d felt after weeks of being caught in the storm of his memories, barely keeping his head above water. Not sleeping, constantly on edge. “I said I was tired.”

“Exactly. Part of your motivation is to be a better partner to Felicity, because of how you perceive your PTSD affecting her. But you’ve also admitted that it’s affecting _you_. You’re tired of the hold the past has on you. The shame you still feel about the things you had to do to survive. Things you are keeping a secret from even those closest to you out of fear of their reaction.”

“A friend of mine once said secrets have weight…” Oliver responded, thinking of Diggle. His friend – his brother – had tried for years to get Oliver to open up, to share with him, to ease his burden. But he was stubborn, and too closed off. And, in the end, the secrets he kept from Dig destroyed their relationship. 

“They do. You are carrying a very heavy load Oliver and it’s exhausting you. Let me - and Felicity - carry some of it.”

 

——------------------

 

Oliver thought about Martin’s words all afternoon as he shopped for, and prepared, dinner for himself and Felicity. They ate early, and afterwards stretched out together on the sofa in front of the fire. She was tucked between his body and the back of the couch, her head on his chest, fingers idly playing with the buttons of his shirt. In one hand he held the wineglass they were sharing, turning it this way and that so the firelight played on the liquid inside. His other hand shifted through the silky strands of her hair.  

Therapy – and having a lot of free time on his hands – had made him much more introspective than he’d ever been. And he often – like tonight - found himself reflecting on the past few months. Examining the shades and nuances of happiness he’d experienced since leaving Starling City all those months ago. 

He’d told Felicity he was happy as they drove out of the city, heading into the setting sun. But that one word didn’t truly encapsulate what he’d felt in that moment. It had been more like…the absence of negative emotions. The feeling of no longer being weighed down by obligation and guilt and fear. He’d felt light and free for the first time in years. 

A few days later, sitting in a busy airport departure lounge with her hand in his, ready to embark on their mini-world tour, he’d felt pure joy. Anticipation of adventure and infinite possibility.  

Every moment he spent with her in bed (and out of it), naked flesh pressed together, hands roaming, lips touching, was…ecstasy. And what followed the passion and pleasure was satiated bliss. 

Contentment came from the surprisingly easy domesticity of their life together. The mingling of possessions, the sharing of chores. Strolling along a sidewalk hand-in-hand; pushing a shopping cart and bickering over groceries. Being an ‘us’.A couple.A team against the world.  

_ Happiness. _

_ Joy.  _

_ Ecstasy.  _

_ Bliss. _

_Contentment._  

The words felt inadequate. The emotions too large and all-encompassing to be compressed into mere letters and syllables. Or maybe he just lacked the vocabulary. Perhaps if he’d actually opened the pages of the required reading from his College literature classes - instead of using the tomes as oversized beer mats - he’d have the words to express himself. To let her know how much color and light she’d brought to his life. 

But on the other hand, some emotions were just too complex and layered to be defined. During their fights – and there had been quite a few in the beginning over his actions as Al Sah-him – he’d been scared and ashamed and guilty; but overlaying all that had been a sense of relief and gratitude that she’d been willing to fight him, fight _with_ him, to make _them_ stronger. 

He’d felt their foundation strengthen with every aired grievance and act of forgiveness on her part. Each conversation had added a layer of mortar to the structure that was first built on friendship and trust, and that now held the weight of their love. 

And it – _they_ \- felt… solid. 

Unbreakable. 

This past year was their crucible. And they’d emerged from it stronger than ever. 

His reflection was interrupted when Felicity shifted to take the wineglass from him. She took a sip of the red liquid, and then studied his face. “You look pensive,” she said, and a small crease of worry formed in her brow.

“Happy thoughts,” he reassured her. And he _was_ happy. Their world was a bubble of crackling wood and gold-hued light, and the remaining hours of the evening stretched before them, with nothing to worry about or dread. 

And his demons were quiet. 

He knew what he was feeling in that moment, without having to reach for it or struggle over definitions. There was a simple word for it. 

Just five letters. 

_Peace._  

It had quickly become his favourite form of happiness. 

And though he was loathe to disturb it, Oliver figured now was as good a time as any to broach the issue he had wrestled with since his therapy session.

“Actually, I have homework” he confessed, “and I need your help.”

“Is this like a high school role-play thing, where you’re the dumb jock and I’m the nerd with a crush?” she said with some excitement.

He laughed, “No, but we’ll store _that_ for future reference. This is from Martin. He says I should tell you a secret.”

“Okay,” she said, hesitantly, “Any secret in particular?”

“Just one I don’t need to keep to myself anymore,” he said with a shrug, trying to downplay how serious – how significant - this moment felt. 

“Okay, hit me.”

He was silent for a long time. He knew - _he knew_ – there was little he could do to break her faith in him. The same was true in reverse. But he was still a bit hesitant to expose his dark underbelly to her.

“Let’s make it a game,” she said, obviously sensing his reluctance. “Truth or dare but without the dare. I’ll go first.”

He nodded in gratitude, then watched as she cocked her head to the side and pursed her lips, deep in thought.

“I’ve got one,” she finally said, “It’s not really a secret-secret, just something I’ve never really shared with anyone. And I know that’s the definition of a secret, I just mean it’s not a bad thing-”

“Felicity,” he interrupted, smiling at her babble. “Just tell me.”

“My parents bought me a telescope for my birthday when I was seven,” she started, her words rushing together. Then she smiled, and her gaze turned inwards as she remembered back to that time. “I was _obsessed_ with space and astronomy - I wanted to be an astronaut. A few weeks after my birthday, my dad woke me up in the middle of the night and he took me outside where he’d set up the telescope to view Jupiter – he’d read online that it was supposed to be a good night for visibility. It was…amazing. Not just seeing an actual planet, but being up in the dead of night, huddled around the telescope, freezing cold, with my dad. It felt like a little adventure. Just the two of us…” she trailed off, the smile on her face turning sad.  

“He was gone the next day. I never saw him again,” she continued, in that matter-of-fact tone she used to hide how much she was hurting. “It tarnished that memory, of that perfect night. When I think about it now…all I remember is that moment when I realised he was gone. And it sounds melodramatic, but I’ve always hated him for ruining the stars for me.”

He tightened both arms around her and kissed the top of her head - he knew how hard it was for her to talk about her father’s abandonment. But while he was grateful that she’d shared another part of herself, her secret had nothing of the darkness and shame of his. 

“I killed a man in Nanda Parbat,” he said, going for the rip-the-bandaid-off-approach to his confession. 

She flinched in surprise but there was no judgement in her voice when she asked, “Who was it?”

“That’s the worst part - I don’t know. It was part of my brainwashing. An initiation, I guess. The drugs…they made me think it was Dig. I was to kill him to prove my loyalty to Ra’s. I knew it wasn’t John, but I still had to kill the man to keep up the pretence. I _executed_ him,” the last was said with bitterness and self-loathing. 

At the time it had felt necessary. And Amanda Waller had instilled in him a sense of pragmatism when it came to missions. What needed to be done, was done. The end justified the means. When he’d isolated himself from his team, it had been easy – too easy - to step back into those old patterns. 

The Hood’s old patterns.  

“You know what I think of that whole undercover as Al Sah-him plan, so we don’t need to rehash it for the twentieth time. I forgive you. But now you need to forgive yourself. Deep beneath the stupidity, your intentions were good. Just remember to. Never. Do. Anything. Like. That. Again,” she punctuated each word of her decree with a firm poke of her finger in his sternum.  

He grunted and grabbed her hand, then kissed the back of it in silent apology.  

He wasn’t really a religious man, so he never held much stock in the concept of divine absolution. It was more important to him what the people in his life thought about him, not some guy he might meet at the Pearly Gates. So Dig’s forgiveness – for keeping secrets, for kidnapping Lyla and endangering Sara (even though he’d made sure she was never truly in danger) – was what truly mattered. If he ever managed to earn it.  

In the meantime, Felicity’s absolution of another one of his sins, and the act of sharing the secret, had made him feel just a little lighter. A little better. 

So he unburdened himself with another (“I slept with Laurel behind Tommy’s back…”) and another (“I tortured people for ARGUS…”) and another…

She held his gaze throughout his confession, her small hand squeezing his when his voice faltered during the recollection. A part of him hated that she now had this knowledge of him. That she shared these memories. But he didn’t doubt for a second that she could handle the burden he’d shifted to her. 

His girl was strong.

The wine was finished and the fire was dying in the hearth, signalling the late hour. So he decided to put a smile back on her face before they both succumbed to the soporific effects of the alcohol and the warmth of the room.

“Do you remember when I told you I visited Starling during my five years away, and I saw Thea?” he asked, knowing just the right memory to improve both of their moods.  

“Yeah,” she said, drawing out the vowels in suspicion. 

“Well, she wasn’t the only person I saw during that trip…” He explained the late night mission to his mother’s office in QC and the interruption by a babbling blonde. 

An incredulous smile lit up her face “No! That did not happen!”

He smiled and cocked his eyebrow, “What can I say, you made an impression.” He leaned over to kiss her on the tip of her nose. “Thank you, by the way. That night, you managed to make me smile when I had very little to smile about.” 

“You are very welcome,” she said. Then she grinned mischievously, “I was a Goth in college.”

He snorted, unable to imagine his Felicity – so bubbly and colorful – draped in black from head to toe. “I’m gonna need photographic evidence of that.”

“I’m sure my mother will be happy to oblige you the next time you talk to her.” 

They spent the next hour trading happier – or at least, less morbid – memories from their youth.

He told her of his arrest for public urination after a keg party at SCU. “Frat boy,” she mocked, shaking her head in fake disapproval.

She shared some of the pranks she’d pulled at high school, including setting up the football team with fake class timetables. “They spent an entire week arriving to the wrong classes and being late for practice,” she boasted.

“I am so glad you’ve since decided to use your power for good and not evil,” he replied.

They went back and forth, both trying to one-up the other with the funniest or most outlandish story. 

He eventually won their little game, with seven words and a secret from the future, “I live to be 86 years old.”

 

\-----------------

 

Felicity plunked the bottle down on the coffee table and raised her eyebrows, “What d’ya say?”

“I say that’s a bottle of vodka…” Oliver responded, with some confusion. 

They’d just finished dinner and he’d crashed on the sofa while Felicity had dealt with the dishes. He’d thought they’d just commence their usual Saturday night activities - he’d watch the highlights from the game while she read her book - but she obviously had a different plan in mind.  

“Your drunken Frat boy stories from the other night got me thinking-”

“Always a dangerous thing.”

“Ha ha,” she said sarcastically, as she unscrewed the lid of the bottle. “It got me thinking about how I’ve never seen you drunk. Or even a little tipsy. And it makes sense -being drunk means being out of control and trusting other people to look out for you. Being drunk dulls your senses, slows your reaction time. The Oliver Queen of Starling City couldn’t afford to get drunk.”

She poured them both a shot glass full of the clear liquid and handed him one as she came to sit beside him on the couch. She turned so her back was to the arm and crossed her legs in front of her. 

“So I’m wondering,” she continued once she was settled, “whether the Oliver Queen of Ivy Town is comfortable enough - and feels safe enough - to let his guard down?”

“Is this like a trust exercise?” he asked, with suspicion. He wasn’t really in the mood for some sort of therapy session…

“No! I just…it occurred to me that you probably haven’t let your hair down - so to speak - since before the Island. And I thought it would be fun to get drunk and silly with my boyfriend. You’re safe here. I’ve locked and alarmed all the doors and windows and…it’s just you and me. But if you feel uncomfortable, we don’t have to! I don’t want you to feel pressured or-”

He cut off her escalating ramble with a finger over her lips. Then he smiled and tipped back the shot in one go. “Sounds fun.”

And it was.

She matched him almost shot for shot. He found it kind of mesmerising, the way her long slender neck would stretch as she tipped back her head to let the liquid slide down her throat. Then she’d look him in the eyes and lick her lips, a small smirk in place and not a hint of a cough or watery eye from the harsh alcohol. 

Yeah, Felicity Smoak doing shots was a bit of a turn on. 

But after the fifth or sixth drink, just when he was about to suggest they switch to body shots and a more horizontal surface, she turned playful. 

She coaxed him into playing drinking games - truth or dare (but without the truth this time), and ‘never have I ever’. They told dirty jokes. She challenged him to a burping competition. Then she turned up the volume on the TV - which was tuned to a music channel playing cheesy hits from the 80s - and bounded to her feet.

“Come dance with me!” she demanded, as she started jumping around to the beat with more enthusiasm than grace.

He barked out a laugh and shook his head, content to watch the show - the way her hips moved; the sliver of abdomen bared when she raised her arms to wave them over her head; her small, but perfect, breasts bouncing...

“Please, Oliver,” she whined, slightly out of breath, “We’ve never danced together!”

“You know me, I don’t dance.”

She replied with a stamp of her foot and a pout on her lips.

It was too much for him to resist. 

He rose from the couch and her eyes lit up in delight. But he dodged her hands and grabbed the remote for the TV. “I’m not dancing to that,” he said as he flicked through the channels. When he found a station playing slow ballads he turned back to her and brought her into his arms. “That’s better.”

She relaxed into him, her head nestled on his chest. “That’s perfect,” she sighed. 

He held one of her hands in his, his thumb stroking over her soft skin, and his other arm was wrapped around her waist. He bent to rest his cheek against the top of her head and closed his eyes.

They swayed together, barely moving, through too many songs to count. Content in each other’s arms, touching from head to bared toes.  

At the end of the night he led her up the stairs - he wasn’t drunk, exactly, but he was…affected…enough to not risk carrying her. One arm was clamped around her waist, the other gripped the bannister. She was tucked into his side, and clumsily stomped up each step. When they made it to the landing, she peered up at him with heavy, hooded eyes. “Did ya have fun, tonight, being all silly?”

“Yes,” he replied, and kissed her on the nose. “Thank you for helping me be silly.”

It wasn’t a flippant comment. Acting like an idiot, getting drunk for the hell of it, slow-dancing with a pretty girl…he hadn’t done any of that in years. But she had given him a safe space to do so, and he really had enjoyed himself. A big part of that enjoyment had come from meeting drunk-Felicity - who was basically normal-Felicity dialled up to 11. 

“I’m glad, Ol’ver. I love seeing you smile. Especially when the dimples come out. It’s so funny! The big bad vigilante has DIMPLES! You didn’t need the bow – you coulda knocked out the criminals with your blinding smile!” She burst into giggles and he smiled with her as he led her into their bedroom

“You’ve always made me smile, Felicity. From the moment I met you. And I love you for it,” he said, sitting at the foot of the bed. The booze was obviously making him feel a little sappy tonight.

“You know Ol’ver, for such a tack-, tacicturn, tac-” she exhaled sharply in frustration, then started again. “For such a broody strong silent man, you sure have a way with words,” she said, coming to stand between his legs.

“Well for a woman who barely shuts up, I’m glad you find other uses for this mouth,” he murmured as he pulled her onto his lap and kissed her. He intended it to be a goodnight kiss, but she had other ideas. She struggled out of his hold and pushed him over so he was lying on the bed. Then she stood up straight and started a clumsy strip tease, swaying to non-existent music. 

“That leads on nicely to the next, and final part, of our drunk evening - drunk sex!” She waggled her eyebrows, then threw her top at him. He laughed and moved up the bed to rest against the pillows, already enjoying her silly fumbling more than any professional strip show he’d ever seen.

She cupped her breasts, still in their white lacy bra, then turned her back to him, shaking her ass from side to side as she slowly pulled down her leggings. 

But she stumbled as the material got caught around her ankles and she tipped forward, ending up on all fours on the floor. “Oops,” she said, then collapsed onto her side with a soft giggle. “I think I’ll just stay here. The room is spinnin’ a bit.” Her words slurred at the end as she closed her eyes, looking for all the world like she really would spend the night on the floor. 

He huffed out a laugh as he got off the bed to help her to her feet. He finished undressing her as she blinked at him with sleepy eyes. He quickly pulled off his own clothes, then covered her in his T-shirt. 

“Sorry, Ol’ver, guess we’ll just have to have hungover sex tomorrow instead,” she said with a yawn as she climbed under the covers. She was asleep almost immediately. 

He smiled and spooned behind her, the hard angles of his body finding their home against her soft curves. 

He couldn’t wait.


	4. Chapter 4

There was a satisfying crack as Oliver struck the striped ball with the cue ball. But it glided passed the intended corner pocket and ricocheted off the rail. 

“Too bad,” Martin said, with fake sympathy and a smug smile as he took his turn crouching over the table. 

Oliver rolled his eyes at the doctor’s competitive streak, a trait he’d grown familiar with over the past month. They’d managed to build up a good rapport, finding common ground in their love of sports and cooking. Now, more often than not, the sessions started with either swapped recipes or pool cues. Oliver didn’t know if this was a conventional patient-therapist relationship, but it worked for him.

He’d discovered that Martin’s interest in treating PTSD started during his time as a chef in the Army. He never saw much combat personally, but he grew increasingly worried at the effect it had on his friends. So he left the forces and went back to school to study psychology. And as for ending up in Ivy Town…

“I followed a woman of course,” he’d disclosed during one of their earlier sessions. “Mary, my wife, is half-Scottish and she was visiting her family for the summer. I was just starting my doctorate when we were introduced and it was love at first sight, at least for me. She took a bit of convincing,” he admitted, with a grin.

Oliver laughed and nodded his head in understanding.

“You look like you have some experience with that,” Martin prompted.

This was finally an area of his life, and his past, that Oliver was happy to talk about. 

“Yeah, with Felicity. She kept me in the dark about her feelings for a long time. She had her reasons,” he was quick to clarify, not wanting to paint her as the bad guy, “very valid reasons. I’d made it pretty clear that I wasn’t in a place to be with someone. But when she finally told me she loved me…” He shook his head, unable to verbalise what that stolen moment in Nanda Parbat meant to him. 

All those years battling to survive on the island, and all of the time spent in Starling City fighting to regain the humanity he’d lost…it had all led to him sitting alone in a chamber in the desert, stripped of his identity, stripped of his will. Once again trapped in a world of violence and death. 

It was one of the lowest points in his life. 

But then she had come to him. And with her words she’d given meaning to his struggle. 

To know that he had had such an impact on the life of this extraordinary woman….That he, a scarred, broken man, had opened up her heart…That she could love him in spite of his past and the way he’d ruined them… it was profound. 

She’d saved him that night. 

She’d given him the courage and the determination to end Ra’s and escape his prophecy, through any means necessary. And the memory of their night together was a succour of purity and love that had helped beat back the brainwashing. For whether he was the Arrow or Oliver Queen or neither of those personas, he was the man Felicity Smoak loved. And that man could never have truly become Al Sah-him.

“Anyway, it took us a while to get where we are,” he’d finished, smiling at the complete understatement of that sentence. 

“Nothing worthwhile ever comes easy,” Martin had said in agreement. 

Oliver was jerked out of his memories by the sound of Martin celebrating as he cleared the table. “Yes! How d’ya like that!” 

The win signalled the end of the game and they took up their usual seats, one man ready, and the other slightly more reluctant, to resume the conversation from their previous meeting.

“So, Oliver, we were talking about the things in your life that trigger your flashbacks and nightmares. Large noisy crowds, significant dates, thunderstorms. These are what we call external triggers. Now I want to broach the issue of internal triggers.”

“What are those?” Oliver questioned.

“Well, some people are triggered by physical discomfort – hunger, sexual frustration, and the like. Others have physical reminders of their trauma, the sight of which can affect them adversely. Like scars or tattoos.” 

 

\--------------------

 

Oliver arrived home to an empty house and a post-it note on the fridge informing him that Felicity was at the hairdressers. 

He grabbed a beer and made himself comfy on the sofa, Felicity’s MacBook balanced on his lap. He spent the next hour researching the process of tattoo removal and the Ivy Town dermatologists who offered the service. 

He was startled out of his reading when Felicity arrived home, the front door closing behind her with a bang due to the brisk evening breeze.

“You look guilty,” she accused, narrowing her eyes at him. “Why do you look guilty?” She suddenly gasped and slammed her hand over her eyes, “Is this a porn thing? Did I totally just interrupt a porn thing?” 

“No!” He hastily picked up the laptop and brought his feet down from where they’d been resting on the coffee table, eager to prove that his pants were zipped and everything was…at ease…down there. “Martin had an interesting suggestion today and I was looking it up online…”

“Still sounding a little porn-y, Oliver,” she said with a smile. She dumped her bag on the floor and kicked off her heels, then joined him on the couch. 

“Look,” he said, turning the laptop around to show her the website he’d been reading. 

“Tattoo removal?”

“Yeah. Apparently some people with PTSD get scar revisions and stuff to deal with their triggers. I thought maybe getting rid of one of my tattoos would help.”

“Why a tattoo and not one of the scars?”

“Do they…do the scars bother you?” he asked.

She rolled her eyes, “Oliver, first of all, this isn’t about me. And second of all, hello? Did you fail to miss the years I spent ogling your naked torso when you were working out three feet from my computers?”

He chuckled, because of course he’d noticed. He’d also noticed that her fingers never hesitated to trace over the raised and puckered skin when they were in bed. 

She even had a routine, though he wasn’t sure she was aware of it. 

When they were drifting off to sleep together, she’d lie with her head on his left shoulder and her fingers would drift over the scar left by Ra’s sword. Then they’d sweep up and across in a gentle caress to the bullet wound from his mother’s gun. Then to Yao Fe’s arrow. And finally down to the marks from Billy Wintergreen’s torture and his shark bite.

She would trace that pattern - a figure-of-eight of pain and survival - over and over till sleep stilled her hand. 

So, no. He didn’t really believe she had a problem with his scars. That was his own insecurity talking. A tiny fleeting remnant of vanity from his playboy days. 

“So which tattoo are you thinking of removing?” she asked

“The dragon on my shoulder.” 

He could see she was dying to ask for details but was reluctant to push. 

“Come here,” he said, as he put aside the laptop and pulled her onto his lap. “I told you how about that tattoo, didn’t I?”

“Just that it was the same as one Shado had. I figured you got it as a way to remember her.”

“It was to remember her. To remember her death and that I caused it.” 

”Oliver-” she protested, ready to defend his innocence.

“Slade put it there. I was chained and mostly unconscious when it happened. He said it was a brand, to remind the world of my crime.”

“God, Oliver, that’s awful. Now I wish I’d stabbed him harder with that syringe!” She wrapped her arms around him and stroked over the tattoo, as if trying to soothe a five-year old pain. “And now I get why you’d want it removed.”

“I did feel responsible for Shado’s death. For a long time. But seeing how warped Slade’s anger was, how he’d twisted Shado’s memory to justify what he did…I realised that Shado, the kind of person she really was, would have forgiven me.”

He could see that she wanted to argue, tell him there was nothing to forgive. But with a slight shake of her head she abandoned the futile attempt. “So all it does now is remind you of Slade, and what he did to you.”

“No, it reminds me of what I did to him - he was my friend and I failed him. Then that makes me think of Tommy…” he trailed off, but saw understanding in her eyes. She knew of his guilt over Tommy’s death. And she’d told him time and again that it wasn’t his fault. 

And he was finally starting to believe her. 

Finally starting to believe that he couldn’t control other people’s actions - and he shouldn’t take responsibility for the choices they made. 

Even after the Miraku left his system, Slade still blamed him for Shado’s death. Still had a vendetta against him. And that was on Slade. Oliver couldn’t blame himself for that. 

And as for Tommy…Tommy died saving the woman he loved. And, as a man in love himself, Oliver respected that decision. By releasing his guilt over Tommy’s death, he was valuing the honor and nobility of Tommy’s sacrifice. 

For years, he bore the dragon as a punishment. A reminder of his perceived failures. But he was learning to let that guilt and sense of responsibility go.

Which meant…he didn’t need the tattoo anymore. 

“Ok,” she said decisively, stretching to grab the laptop. “Which of these places look good?” 

She relaxed back into him while she surfed through the tabs he’d opened, trusting he’d take her weight. That he wouldn’t let her fall. 

That he wouldn’t fail her too.

_Never _, he vowed silently, pressing his lips against her hair, breathing her in.__

He’d rather die than fail this woman.

 

\-------------------

 

The skin beneath the bandage itched. But it was worth it. After only three sessions of laser treatment, the tattoo was already much fainter. It almost looked as if his body was absorbing the dragon, layer by layer. Taking its strength, whilst leaving him cleaner. Purer. 

Shaking his head at the fanciful notion, he entered their bedroom to find Felicity facing the full length mirror in the corner, wearing nothing but the cute polka-dot bra and panty set he liked. She cast him an anxious look over her shoulder, her bottom lip caught between her teeth.

“I did something a little…impulsive…today,” she admitted as she turned back to the mirror, her eyes cast down to her left hip. 

The question was on the tip of his tongue but as he moved to stand behind her the answer was reflected in the glass. 

A little green arrow, tattooed above her hip bone. 

Inexplicably, his first reaction was a bolt of lust - he didn’t think he had a thing for tattoos on women. Maybe he just had a thing for Felicity branding herself with his mark. 

He dropped to his knees, spinning her around to face him in one smooth movement. She huffed out a laugh at the man-handling and her hand came to rest on his head, her short nails absently carding through his hair. “What do you think?”

He rubbed his thumb around the mark a few times, careful not to touch the angry-looking skin. It was pretty and delicate - but still, undeniably, a weapon. _A little like the woman who bears it, _he thought.__

He lifted his head to look at her “Why?”

“You’re removing a triggering tattoo, something that was forced on you to remind you of something tragic. I guess I wanted to get an…anti-triggering tattoo. This was something that I chose to have done to me, and it reminds me of all the good we did together. I was proud of our little team, and I fell in love with you as the Arrow, so…” she trailed off, a hint of nerves still in her voice. 

He pressed a kiss above the ink, his eyes closing as if in benediction. What did he do to deserve this woman? That she knew all sides to him, and was still proud…

“I love it.” 

“Yeah?” He heard the smile in her voice, and the relief in her released breath.

“Yeah. In fact,” he said, meeting her eyes with a lascivious grin, “how long till I can trace it with my tongue?”

Her eyes widened and her lips parted as she sucked in a breath, ‘Oh, um, once the scab falls off, I guess.” Her eyes slammed shut and she scrunched her nose in disgust. “I can’t believe I said ‘scab’ when we were having a sexy, dirty-talking moment. Ugh.”

He laughed and scooped her up into his arms as he rose from his crouch. He walked her over to the nearby bed and tossed her onto the mattress, grinning at her giggles. 

He then proceeded to trace every inch of her _unmarked _skin instead.__


	5. Chapter 5

_The skin beneath the cuffs tears and splits with his struggles and his shoulder screams with the pain of his position and the bite of the cold, hard ground. His vision blurs with tears, but he can’t look away. He sees her –_ _his_ mother _–_ _stand proudly before Slade, ready to sacrifice her life for her children. For him. He can’t let her. He can’t bear the death of another parent on his conscience. He can’t let Thea see this…he screams at Slade. Begs with broken words. But no sound emerges. He’s helpless to watch as she’s struck. And powerless to stop her as she falls. Slowly, slowly, she drifts down to meet the ground, her eyes locked on his in fear and pain and accusation. The earth between them grows damp with her blood and it rushes towards him with sentient determination. It soaks his shirt and burns his chilled skin. And he still can’t move. He’s trapped by her eyes, as they slowly lose all cognition. Her skin is chalk white, yet her lips move. His name, over and over in a whisper that drowns out even Thea’s screams._  

He woke, blinking his eyes in the silent darkness.

But when he tried to move his arms, groggy confusion turned to terrified panic – he was still trapped. _His arms were still bound!_  

A jolt of adrenaline shot through him. His stomach clenched and his heart rate cranked. _Why was he still trapped? Where was Slade? Thea! He had to get to Thea-_

"Oliver," Felicity shouted.

_Why was Felicity here? She wasn’t supposed to be here. It didn’t happen like this._ His fear amplified, but he couldn’t catch his breath to call for her. To warn her- 

Light. 

Soft hands on his face.

Felicity was sitting up in their bed, facing him, and…his arms were free. 

One of them had been resting beneath her head, the other clutched between her breasts like a stuffed toy – not an unusual sleeping position for them. 

He hadn’t been bound or trapped at all. 

He was safe. In their home. With her.

But the panic wouldn’t fade. 

The adrenaline surged again - _Fight or flight. Fight or flight_. 

He chose flight.

He bounded out of bed and was on his feet in an instant, hastily shoving on his sneakers and hoodie. 

He needed some air. Some distance.

He needed to run until the only thought in his head was where to place his next step. The only sound, the rushing of his pulse. 

He heard her calling to him as he bolted downstairs, but he couldn’t stop.

He was at a sprint before he reached the end of their driveway. 

 

\--------------  

 

He was gone for six hours. 

Felicity had woken to the jerking of his arm under her head, the jarring motion pulling her from her dreamless sleep. 

She could tell immediately something was wrong. His normally warm, dry skin was clammy with sweat and she could hear his panting breaths. She’d sat up and switched on the bedside lamp, turning to face him where he was spooned behind her. His eyes were open but unseeing, still locked in his nightmare. 

She’d called to him, desperate to bring him back to her. At the touch of her hands on his pale, shocked face, he’d blinked and was suddenly on his feet. He’d looked wild and crazed, eyes darting around, looking for danger.

Then he’d ran out of the room. 

As soon as she’d heard the front door slam shut she’d thrown on her shoes and coat and grabbed her car keys, determined to follow him. But he must have run through the wooded area at the top of the street. 

There was no sign of him. 

So she waited. 

She spent an hour pacing the floor, phone in hand in case he tried to contact her. With what, she had no clue - he’d left his phone on the kitchen counter. _Were pay phones still a thing these days?_ she wondered.

When the repetitive creaking of the hardwood floors had started to grate, she’d stopped pacing and curled up in the corner of the couch, facing the door, a blanket wrapped around her to ward off the chill of the night. 

And she waited. 

The sun rose, and the muted golden rays inched their way through the kitchen windows until the whole house was lit with bright sunshine. 

And she waited. 

She heard her neighbours leaving for work. Doors closing, engines starting, calls of goodbye. 

And still she waited. 

When he finally returned, her worry and fear had mutated into an anger so acute she had to clench her jaw to keep from raging at him the moment he stepped foot in the house. 

He looked exhausted - drenched in sweat and each footfall leaden with fatigue. But she was too furious with him to care. When he finally raised his head and spotted her on the couch, he looked surprised.

But then all emotion on his face disappeared, like he’d pulled on a mask ( _how apt,_ she thought). 

He turned away from her to head upstairs. 

“So glad you’re back, Honey. How was your jog?” The biting, sarcastic tone of her words made him flinch but he didn't stop his ascent.

“Oliver!” She threw off the blanket and stormed after him, pounding up the stairs. She found him shirtless in their room, mopping at the perspiration on his chest with the equally damp hoodie. 

“Do I get an explanation for this? Or, at least, an apology?” she demanded. 

“For what?” he asked. His voice was neutral, unaffected. 

And it was that apathy that severed her last nerve.

“For running out on me,” she shouted.

“ I didn't run out on you, Felicity," he replied, in an almost patronising tone. "I had a nightmare, I needed some space. It's not a big deal." 

“Not a big deal? I didn’t know where you’d gone, if you were safe-” Her voice broke on the last words as she choked down a sob. She hated herself for letting her tears get the better of her, but she couldn’t stop them.

And they broke through his detachment in a way her words couldn’t.

He finally looked at her. And she could imagine what he saw - exhausted eyes, teeth marks in her chapped lips from anxious worrying, dishevelled hair from running her finger through it.

“What’s this about, Felicity?” he asked, in the soft caring tone reserved only for her. Her relief at having _her_ Oliver back made her knees weak. She collapsed onto the end of the bed and he crouched down before her, his hands on her knees and his gaze locked with hers. “You’ve seen me have nightmares. You know I’m…dealing with stuff at the moment. The PTSD…it hasn’t gone away just because I’ve had a few therapy sessions.

“I know that,” she said, cupping his face with her hand. “But I’m not your carer, Oliver, I’m your partner. The things you’re going through, the way you cope with them…they affect me too.” She ended on an embarrassed whisper - she wanted to be strong for him. To be his support, his rock.

He moved to sit beside her, and they angled themselves to face the other automatically. _It had always been like this between them_ , she thought. Meeting each other head-on, not avoiding eye contact. The intensity of his gaze had never scared her, no matter how hard he’d tried in the beginning. She saw his soul in those blue eyes. And she’d fallen in love with the decent, kind man behind them.

“What do you mean?”

Decent and kind, but not a mind reader apparently. God, she was going to have to spell this out to him   

“As much as I hate to be a cliché, I have…abandonment issues. My Dad…Cooper….you.”

He jerked in reaction, but then slowly nodded in understanding, “The duel with Ra’s, when you thought I’d…”

“Died, Oliver. I thought you’d died. Another man that I loved. Gone. I don’t want you to feel guilty, but I…I don’t think you really know what those three weeks were like for me. It was like half my soul had been ripped from me.”

He pulled her close and kissed her forehead, whispering, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

She leaned back and caught his gaze again. She needed to get this out before she lost her nerve, “I know you are. But it’s not just that…incident…I’m talking about. Your first instinct is always to run. After the earthquake in the glades, you left - for  _months_ \- with no word. You went missing again during your mother’s funeral. After our date blew up you ran from me emotionally. Every time you have a set back with your PTSD, you run. All I want to do is be here for you, but you run. From me. The girl with the abandonment issues.”

He looked like a kicked puppy, his head hanging down, his gaze now focused on their clasped hands. She’d love nothing more than to embrace him and comfort him…but he needed to see her point of view.

“I know you’re dealing with this – and I am so proud of you for it – but I just need you to keep me in the loop a bit more. If you’re feeling trapped or smothered, tell me. If you’re feeling on edge and need me to be quiet, tell me. I can’t walk on eggshells around you, trying to anticipate your mood, Oliver. I need you to communicate with me. And if you go for a run, please, at least take your phone.”

She said the last bit with a smile, trying to coax him from his dour mood. The last thing she wanted was to add to his guilt complex. But she was in this relationship too, and deserved some consideration.

“You’re right,” h e said, raising his head to look at her. “I’m sorry. I’ll…try to do better.”

“That’s all I ask,” she replied, as she leaned it to kiss him.

The hours of worry and fear and the catharsis of their fight, led her to deepen the kiss almost immediately. She was suddenly desperate to assure herself of his safety, to reconnect with him on a physical level. She clutched at his bare shoulders then ran her hand over his chest, searching for his strong heart beat. He was here, whole and alive in front of her. She scrambled into his lap and thrust her suddenly aching core against his. He pulled back from their kiss, his eyes delightfully glazed and his lips red from her efforts.

“As much as I’m loving this, I’m really sweaty,” he protested, even as he ran his hands beneath her top to caress her back.

“I know,” she murmured. “It’s amazing.” Her hands glided over the slick, warm skin of his biceps, his shoulders, his back.

He chuckled as he stood up from the bed. Her thighs clutched his waist but she needn’t have bothered with the effort - he could hold her up against him with just one hand. And that knowledge made her even hotter.

“Where’re we goin’?” she asked between nips to his neck.

“I’m multi-tasking,” h e replied, walking them towards the bathroom.

Each step he took pulsed their lower bodies together in wonderful ways, leaving her slightly distracted. “Huh?”

“Shower sex. I get clean, while we get off."

“So romantic,” she laughed, as he sat her on the vanity. His hips thrust against hers and she dropped her head back and moaned. Then he turned away to start the shower.

“You complaining?” he asked looking back at her with one eyebrow cocked.

“Nope. In fact,“ she said as she started whipping off her clothes, “first one in gets double the orgasms!”

 

\----------------

 

“You seem down today,” Martin commented as Oliver took up his usual seat on the leather couch. It was the day after his fight with Felicity and even though they’d cleared the air – and cemented that with some truly excellent make-up sex – the incident was still playing on his mind. 

“I had a…setback…I guess you’d call it,” Oliver admitted. 

“What happened?”

“I had a nightmare the other night. And I didn’t deal with it very well.” He explained about his panic at waking up feeling trapped. How he’d ran from his home and hadn’t returned for hours. 

And how that had affected Felicity. 

“It didn’t even occur to me that she’d be worried! That she’d sit for hours waiting for me to come home. I was so wrapped up in my own stuff that I didn’t even realise she was angry until she started yelling. What does that say about me?” 

“It says you’re still learning to cope with your experiences,” Martin answered. “You’ve only been in therapy for six weeks, and we’ve barely scratched the surface of what you went through. I’m not surprised you’re still having difficulty dealing with your past. So give yourself a break Oliver - you’re being too hard on yourself.”

“It’s not myself I’m worried about.” Felicity had forgiven him too easily. He’d been selfish, thinking only of himself and not how his actions impacted her. He’d hurt her. 

And that set a precedent that scared him. It reminded him too much of the boy who’d dated Laurel and broke her heart again and again. 

“Was Felicity in physical danger?” Martin asked cautiously.

Oliver tensed, then exhaled on a curse. “I wasn’t even thinking about that.” 

But now he was. 

He remembered the fear that had gripped him when he’d thought he was still bound. If he’d struggled to free himself from Felicity’s embrace, he could have hurt her - badly. Luckily, there must have been a small part of him that was aware of his surroundings. Aware that she was nearby.

But that small flicker of consciousness might not be there the next time… 

He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees then scrubbed his face with his hands. 

“I hope you understand, I had to bring that up,” Martin said. His voice was soft and his tone conciliatory. And that was the only thing keeping Oliver from bolting out of the room. 

“I know. I was thinking more about hurting her emotionally. But yeah, it scares the shit out of me that I might hurt her physically.”

“Maybe there’s something we can do about that. What do you think about a joint session? You, me and Felicity?” 

Oliver raised his head and met the doctor’s eyes. “Anything. I’ll do anything.”

“Good. You mention it to Felicity and if she’s agreeable, she can come along next week.”

Oliver nodded, the doctor’s optimism lighting a small spark of hope in his chest.He didn’t ever want to hurt her. And if there was a way to prevent that, he was all in. 

“So now that we’ve addressed your concerns about Felicity, how do you feel about discussing the nightmare itself? What do you think triggered it?”

Oliver frowned, trying to work out why he’d dreamt of Slade and his mother. Neither of them had come up in conversation lately. And the anniversary of that night was months ago... 

But that meant…

“It’s her birthday tomorrow,” he whispered.

“Who’s birthday?”

“My mother’s. I must have noticed the date earlier in the week...the nightmare – I was reliving her death.”

“I’d heard she’d died in tragic circumstances…” Martin prompted. He never asked outright for Oliver to share the particulars of his past, preferring to let Oliver decide how much he revealed. 

And Oliver needed to share this. To get it off his chest. Even though it meant getting a little creative with the details.

“Yeah, it was a…former employee of the company. He held a grudge against our family. Against me. I was the one who fired him. So he kidnapped us – me, Mom and Thea – and he forced me to watch…” Oliver’s voice hitched, and the bridge of his nose burned with unshed tears.

“You felt powerless,” Martin deduced.

“I was. I couldn’t stop him. I begged and I pleaded and I offered myself instead. But…he killed her.” 

“I’m so sorry, Oliver,” Martin said, sincerely. He sat back in his chair, giving Oliver time to collect himself. 

When he finally spoke again, his words were a non-sequitur that confused Oliver. “A shipwreck is considered an Act of God. An event outside human control.”

Oliver nodded. His particular shipwreck was an Act of Merlyn, but it was still outside of his control, so there was no point in contradicting him. And he was intrigued where Martin was going with this.

"Your life was drastically, and irrevocably, altered by that event. By something you were powerless to anticipate, prevent or control. So I wouldn’t be surprised if that lack of agency is something you try very hard to avoid.”

“To a fault,” Oliver admitted, finally seeing the logic in Martin’s words. 

“Why do you say that?”

“I made…mistakes last year that hurt the people closest to me. And it was because I was too controlling. I decided Felicity and I couldn’t be together. I decided how we would do things. I decided how much people needed to know about what was going on. 

“Did they understand why you felt this need for control?”

“We never really discussed it.”

“Oliver, your friends and family are never going to fully understand what you went through. It was a unique experience. So they’re liable to sometimes view your actions – judge your actions - from their frame of reference only. Unless you give them an insight into what you’re thinking and feeling.”

_Communication_. It always seemed to be at the heart of Martin’s advice. And in the beginning, when Oliver had first started wearing the hood, there didn’t seem to be a need for it within their little team. He was the one with the intel and the skills necessary to complete his father’s crusade. John, then Felicity, followed his lead. 

But over the years, they had become true partners. And after he’d returned from his near death experience with Ra’s, it was clear the team had evolved further, with every member of it dedicated to their mission and wanting their voice heard. 

He’d just been too stubborn and scared to acknowledge it. Ra’s had systematically stripped away his life and Oliver had been powerless to stop it. So in reaction, Oliver had grasped too hard at the things he could control – namely his plan with Malcolm, and (the lack) of information he shared with his team.

“But there’s balance to be found in everything,” Martin continued. “Your friends and family gaining a better understanding of your need to be in charge isn’t an invitation for you to act like a tyrant. You need to learn to loosen the reigns a bit. Learn to accept that there are things out with your control. Trust in other people and let them help you.”

And there was the other constant of these therapy sessions. It always came down to communication and asking for help. _No big deal_ , Oliver thought sarcastically. 

His thoughts must have shown on his face, because Martin chuckled and added “I know it’s not an easy concept for someone with your past. But the fact that you’re aware you have these control issues, means that it’s a habit you can eventually break.” 

Oliver nodded slowly, as the doctor continued. “The reason I brought up this issue of control and power, is that its possibly the reason you are still so affected by the events surrounding your mother’s death. Can we speak a bit more about that?”

Oliver nodded again. He felt more drained than usual during this session, but he’d prefer to get all of this out now, rather than drag it out. 

“Good. Tell me, how did you cope in the aftermath of her death? Were your friends supportive? Did you take time off work to grieve and plan that funeral?”

“I didn’t even go to the funeral.” 

“Oh. I sense you regret that…”

“Yeah. I couldn’t bear it at the time. The funeral, seeing all those people, knowing I was responsible. I hate how I handled that whole thing – mainly because I left my sister alone and it fractured our relationship. And I didn’t have time to make it right. The city- my life was chaotic after her death. I couldn’t afford to take time off. I didn't have the luxury of grief.”

“It’s natural to want to distract yourself. But not having the closure of a funeral, and not taking the time to grieve, means that you haven’t fully processed your emotions concerning your mother’s death. And it’s manifesting in nightmares and, I suspect, other ways too.When you think about her, do those thoughts and memories make you happy?” 

“No,“ He admitted, after a few moments. “I miss her – every day – but it’s more like…an abstract emotion. Always there in the background and easy to ignore. But when I bring it into focus, when I think of her too much…it’s like a raw nerve. Just brushing against it is painful.”

“So you avoid thinking about her?”

“Yeah,” Oliver said, with no small amount of shame. His mother was always such an important part of his life. She’d loved him unconditionally, even when he was a spoiled brat.She was the person he came to with his problems. She was the rock of their family. And even when his respect and admiration for her wavered with each unveiled secret, he’d never stopped loving her. 

And now, instead of savouring the memories he had, it was like he’d cut her out of his life. 

“Avoidance of painful reminders is fairly typical for people with PTSD. But in this instance…I don’t believe it’s the trauma surrounding her death that’s the only issue here. It’s the fact that you never truly grieved. You lost your mother before her time, under terrible circumstances – that you feel responsible for, and during which you felt powerless. And you’ve never properly dealt with the fall out of all that. Now, with a significant anniversary looming, it’s all coming to a head. Frankly Oliver, I would be more worried if you weren’t having a bad time of it this week.”

Oliver collapsed back against the sofa cushions, emitting a sigh of mixed emotions. It was a relief to understand the context for his reactions this week, and to know that it wasn’t some major setback in his progress. But the thought of dealing with the pain of his mother’s death made him feel sick to the stomach. 

“I know this is going to be hard. But for future anniversaries to become more bearable, and for you to think back on your mother with fondness and not anguish, you need to give yourself the time to truly grieve her passing. Touch that nerve, take the hit. Work through the pain. I will help you. Felicity will help you, I’m sure. And reach out to your sister, she may be going through something similar. You can help each other”. 

 

\----------------

 

Oliver paced along the edge of the patio, conscious to keep within the range of the cordless phone, while he waited for Thea to pick up. 

After hours of procrastination, he still didn’t feel ready to talk to his sister. But the guilt of leaving her to deal with their mother’s death alone, and his resolution to be a better brother, eventually overcame his reluctance.  

The phone rang several more times before Thea finally answered. “Felicity?” She asked, in a breathless voice. 

Oliver pulled the handset from his ear to look at it, confused as to why his sister would presume it was Felicity, and not him, contacting her.

“No…” he responded.

“Oh. Oh! Hi, Ollie. What’s up?”

“Nothing….I just…wanted to catch up.”

“Well you caught me – literally. I was halfway to the elevators when I heard the phone ring.”

“Oh, if you’re headed out, I can call back later,” he replied, procrastination rearing its head again. 

“No, it’s fine – I was just gonna go train, but it can wait. We haven’t talked in a while. How’s life in the ‘burbs?” 

Her tone was ever so slightly snarky, and he couldn’t figure out if that was because he hadn’t kept in touch as much as he should; or whether it was related to his new life away from Starling. Thea had always been such a city girl so, to her, the thought of the quiet life in suburbia was probably the seventh level of hell. 

“Things are good here. Really good.”

An awkward silence descended. Oliver had no idea how to broach the subject of their mom. And he didn’t want to drag up bad memories for Thea if she had managed to forget the significance of today’s date.

But even from hundreds of miles away, it seemed his sister could read him like a book. “Is this about Mom?” she asked quietly.

Oliver let out a relieved sigh. “Yeah…I just…I wanted to see how you were doing.” 

“I’m okay, Ollie. Really. I think about her all the time, so today isn’t any harder for me.”

“What…what do you think about?” 

“Lots of stuff. Memories of when it was the four of us. Then when it was just the two of us. I sometimes see a dress or a necklace when I’m out shopping and I think how much she’d like it. And when I catch someone wearing Chanel No.5 perfume…it makes me smile.”

“I’m glad you can remember her and smile.”

“Yeah,” she said in a whisper. 

They were both quiet again. But this time the silence was laden with shared memories rather than awkwardness 

“It’s not the past that’s hard for me,” Thea admitted after a few moments. “It’s the thought of a future – my future - without her in it. It’s like I already miss her presence for stuff that hasn’t even happened yet. Like my wedding day, and when I have a baby. She’ll never get to see any of that. And she’ll never get to see…who I become.” 

Oliver fought back his own tears in an effort to comfort his sister. “No matter what you do, or who you become, she would love you and be proud of you, Thea.”

“Even when I’m wearing a red leather hoodie and kicking the crap out of criminals?”

“Even then,” Oliver replied with conviction. “She…she knew about me – about the Arrow. And she told me she couldn’t be more proud. So I’m sure she would have been just as proud of you for protecting the city.”

“She knew?” Thea asked. There was a hint of wonder in her voice. And a fair bit of resentment. “So I really was the last to find out.”

“She figured it out on her own, Thea,” Oliver said defensively.

“She always did have freaky mother’s intuition,” Thea responded, and they both laughed, remembering how difficult it was to keep secrets from her growing up. 

“I’m sorry, Ollie. I didn’t mean to give you a hard time. I get it now. I spoke to Walter this morning and he was asking what I was up to. And I realised there was this huge part of my life I couldn’t tell him about. And I hated it. So I know it must have been hard for you too.”

“Thanks, Speedy,” he said softly, “that means a lot to me.”

They talked a bit more – trading stories of past birthday celebrations - before hanging up. Then Oliver sat on the love seat, arms loosely crossed and legs stretched out while he stared up at the sky, the dying light of the sun painting it in shades of pink and orange. 

For days – ever since that nightmare – he’d been plagued by grief. The loss he felt and the guilt over his mother’s death was a hollow pit in his stomach. But reminiscing with Thea, and remembering the fierce, unconditional and sacrificing love he’d received from his mom, filled in those hollow spaces. 

He felt…lighter. 

And his thoughts turned to the future. 

He knew what Thea had meant, the feeling of regret that came from picturing a life without their Mom. But for him, that regret was overwhelmed by the joy he felt at being able to picture a future at all. 

During the five years he was gone, each day was about surviving to the next. The future was the next breath, the next meal, the next sunrise…nothing beyond that. 

When he returned to Starling, the future was a little more tangible. But it was populated by criminals and missions – not hopes and dreams. And any illusion he had to the contrary vanished with Sara’s death. He’d truly believed it was his fate to end up on that medical table - a collection of scars and pain mapped out on a body that had finally failed him in battle. 

But ever since he’d left that world and started a new one with Felicity...the future was a wish waiting to be fulfilled. It was a Polaroid in his pocket – the exact picture still developing but becoming clearer everyday. There’d be rings on fingers and vows before God and tiny pattering feet and gentle laughter. 

His future was the promise of a happy life. 


	6. Chapter 6

“It’s lovely to put a face to the name, Felicity. How are you today?”

The doctor’s soft, lilting (and a bit sexy if she was honest) accent made the question seem innocuous; but to Felicity, it felt anything but. She was a jumble of fear, nerves and anxiety. She felt like she’d been called to the principal’s office to await judgement. What if she wasn’t enough to help Oliver through this? He had made progress over the past few weeks but what if she undid all of that with a thoughtless word or act?

A gentle squeeze of her hand from Oliver brought her back to the present. She glanced at him to see an encouraging smile on his face. He actually seemed at ease here. To be fair, it was a bit of a man-cave, with the dark wood-panelled walls, the baseball memorabilia scattered around and the pool table in the far corner; but it seemed to be Martin himself responsible for Oliver’s comfort. 

They had greeted each other with a handshake and a smile, Martin patting him on the back briefly whilst asking if he’d caught the game the night before. Oliver had taken her coat and hung it on the rack by the door before leading her over to the green leather couch; Martin had hung back, happy to let Oliver take the lead in his office. 

It all spoke to the familiarity between the two men. And it was a relief to know that Oliver wasn’t simply placating her when he told her he was happy in the choice of Martin as his therapist. 

That relief was enough to make her relax and return Oliver’s smile with one of her own before finally responding to the doctor’s greeting. “I’m good, thank you \-  I mean, not ‘good’ as in happy to be here. I mean, I am happy to be here to help Oliver but it’s not good that he has to be here in the first place. It sucks actually – and I don’t mean for me, as his girlfriend, but for him...and I’m gonna stop talking now.”

_Terrific_ , she thought, _a babble - great way to show the professional that you’re the picture of mental health!_

“I can see that you’re nervous Felicity, but there really is no need to be,” Martin said with an encouraging smile.

And there really wasn’t. She’d faced down Slade Wilson, Malcolm Merlyn and Ra’s-freaking-al Ghul, without breaking a sweat. She could handle one mild-mannered therapist. So she sat up straighter, squared her shoulders, and met the doctor’s eyes, “I just want to help Oliver, in anyway I can.”

“I’m glad to hear it – and Oliver is lucky to have you.” 

At that declaration, Oliver leaned into her and pressed his lips to her temple, whispering a single word, “Agreed.” She closed her eyes briefly, still a little overwhelmed whenever Oliver brought out the PDA. 

They both faced forward again when Martin spoke. “Oliver?” he asked, “would you feel more comfortable stepping out while I talk to Felicity? Some people find it difficult to hear just how much their loved ones have noticed about them.”

Oliver turned to her and answered the question whilst searching her eyes for any discomfort, “I’m okay to stay if she is.”

She nodded at him, then faced Martin, “It’s fine.”

“Good. Let’s get down to business then. Oliver told me that you’ve known each other for a few years now - can you tell me when you first noticed that Oliver was having trouble with his past?”

“Um, well, he was always reluctant to talk about the island. And sometimes he would get…angry…if someone pushed him to speak about it.” She glanced at Oliver, hoping he was still alright with her discussing him so clinically. 

But he was looking at her with nothing but love and support in his eyes, so she continued. “I think he hid a lot of what he was going through from us – from me. But sometimes, things would come to light – ghosts from his past would emerge – and it was obvious they were haunting him.”

“Haunting him?” Martin interjected, “what do you mean by that?”

“Just that he would become preoccupied. He’d retreat into himself and spend hours just sitting in a dark room, brooding over things he’d done.” She heard Oliver huff out an almost imperceptible laugh at her choice of words. And the realisation that her account wasn’t hurting him, gave her the encouragement to go further.

“He has a massive guilt complex. Like, gargantuan-sized. He takes responsibility for things that aren’t his fault and…tries to fix things for everyone in his life. I have to assume that comes from his trauma, because it doesn’t fit what I know of Ollie.”

“Ollie?”

“It’s a nickname. But only the people who knew him pre-island use it. He’s only ever been Oliver to me. Well, now he’s sometimes ‘Hun’, or ‘Honey’ - but you really didn’t need to know that.” She dipped her head in embarrassment as Martin and Oliver chuckled. 

“Well that leads me in nicely to my next question. How have things been since you got together?”

“At the beginning, it was…amazing. We worked in a high stress job and it was nice to be able to relax together and get to know each other away from that environment. We travelled for weeks – Asia, South America, Europe - and Oliver seemed so happy. But I noticed that he’d get…anxious sometimes.” 

She turned to face him, “Do you remember the market stall in Bali?” Oliver nodded solemnly, so she went back to addressing Martin. “It was really crowded and noisy and he just got more and more tense. He basically herded me out of there like cattle. But once we were out in the open he seemed to relax again.”

“Any more examples you can think of?” Martin queried. 

“Not while travelling. Maybe the excitement and the novelty of it…masked his symptoms. Or maybe I misinterpreted things…” She trailed off, worried that she’d missed some early signs. “I definitely noticed things weren’t right when we moved here. He would withdraw into himself - just sit on the couch and stare at nothing. And his hand would do this tick thing. 

“Tick?”

“Yeah, he does this thing where he rubs his fingers and thumb together.  He used to do it at work when he was nervous - public speaking, that type of thing. But he would start to do it just sitting in the car, or walking the grocery aisles. It became kind of a clue that he was having a bad day. And then the nightmares started.”

Pressed together as they were on the couch, she felt the instant Oliver became tense. She glanced at him and saw that his head was bowed and he was staring at a spot on the carpet in front of them. It was her turn to squeeze his hand in reassurance. He flicked his eyes up to hers and gave her a small smile and nodded at her to continue. 

“They don’t happen very often - I could never pin down any sort of pattern to them. And most of the time, he’s able to pull himself out and wake up.”

“But not always,” Martin prompted.

“No,” she whispered, knowing how much Oliver would hate having to listen to this. “There was an…incident just before he started coming here. He was thrashing around in bed and when I tried to coax him out of it, he jerked upright and grabbed my arm. But he wasn’t really awake – his head was darting around as if he was looking for danger and he wouldn’t respond when I called his name.”

“What did you do?” Martin asked.

“I just waited it out. I didn’t want to struggle and make things worse. And eventually he woke up and let go.”

“That was very sensible,” Martin said. He was slouched low in his armchair, his legs stretched out in front of him. He held a pen which he tapped against his chin as if he was trying to work something out.

After a few moments, he spoke again, “Oliver told me of that incident, as you called it, and the episode earlier this week when he left the house in the middle of the night.I’ve been working on some techniques with him to break the link between his memories and the strong emotional response they invoke. But he may always suffer with these nightmares. So I think it’s important you, as a couple, come up with ways to cope with them. Oliver, are you comfortable telling Felicity your concerns regarding your nightmares?” 

“Yeah,” Oliver replied, his voice slightly croaky from disuse. He angled himself to face her better before he continued, “I’m worried about hurting you again.”

“But Oliver-“ she interjected.

“Please, hear me out,” he implored. “I know you say it’s not my fault, that I’m not aware of what I’m doing. But that doesn’t make me feel any less guilty when you end up with bruises. For days after that happened, I was terrified to fall asleep next to you – a part of me is still scared, every time we go to bed.” 

“What would make you feel more comfortable about going to sleep?” Martin inquired.

“If I knew that Felicity wouldn’t come near me when I’m like that.”

“Be specific, Oliver. This is your chance to make a plan you both can follow when a nightmare occurs.”

“I want her to get out of bed – preferably out of the room – when it looks as if I’m not going to wake up peacefully.”

“You want me to leave you alone?” she asked in a small voice, hating the prospect of abandoning him to that kind of pain. 

“Yes. I know you’re instinct is to help me – and I love you for it - but you being out of danger will help me the most.”

“And what about when you do wake up? Are you going to run away every time?”

“I’m sorry for doing that. And I told you I’d try to do better. But I can’t guarantee that I won’t do it again. Sometimes I just need to process things alone, and running helps with that. But just know that I will always – _always_ – come back to you.”

 

\-----------------

 

They were quiet for most of the drive to the restaurant. Neither one of them was in the mood to cook after that emotionally draining session so Oliver had suggested they stop at the local Big Belly Burger. 

Their allotted hour had wrapped soon after they had agreed upon the ‘Oliver Nightmare Plan’. She had reluctantly consented to it, understanding that it would at least give Oliver a measure of peace and security to know she would remove herself from danger. 

But she knew, if and when the time came, putting it into practice would be easier said than done when faced with the man she loved in distress. 

Martin had handed her a leaflet on sleeping strategies as they’d left his office, with the suggestion that some of the tips might come in handy. She fiddled with the corners of it now, while staring at the picture of the couple on the front. She was so absorbed in the mindless activity that she almost jumped when Oliver broke the silence.

“I’m rolling the bow string,” he said.

“Huh?” she replied in confusion, lifting her head to look at him. He was concentrating on the rush hour traffic and didn’t meet her gaze as he answered.

“The nervous hand tick you mentioned? In my head, I’m rolling the string of my bow.When I get nervous, it…anchors me, calms me down.”

“Oh,” she responded, at a loss for anything more meaningful to say.

They didn’t speak again until they were seated opposite each other in a booth at the back of the dimly lit restaurant. Oliver gave the waitress their order, then leaned back into the red leather and nodded to the leaflet she still had clutched in her hand. “Anything useful in that?”

“I haven’t actually read it,” she admitted. 

“You were staring pretty hard at it in the car.”

“I was just…processing,” she replied, making a vague gesture towards her head. In an attempt to maintain the conversation and put them both at ease, she started reading aloud, “It suggests changing your sleeping area to create a comfortable, cool, dark space.”

“I think our bedroom is pretty comfortable. What else?” 

“Um, _‘Use your bedroom only for sleeping and sex’_.”

“I hope that doesn’t mean we can’t have sex elsewhere.”

She grinned at that, and finally felt herself start to relax. “God forbid!” she replied with mock horror. “No, it just means no TV or distractions. Here’s another tip – _‘Consider using soothing music or a ‘white noise’ machine.’_ ”

“Does your snoring count as white noise?”

“Hey!” She threw the leaflet at his head in retaliation.

He plucked it out of the air (of course) and recited the next tip.

“‘ _Keep a_ _bedtime routine and sleep schedule.’_ What am I, a toddler?”

She giggled and stole back the leaflet, skimming through it to find the most heinous suggestion. “ _‘Don’t do stressful or energetic things within two hours of going to bed_.’ Well looks like sex is out after all.”

“I’d rather suffer the nightmare,” he responded with a grouchy expression. 

The reminder of the purpose of the leaflet – and their therapy session – sobered her. “Don’t say that. I hate seeing you like that.”

“Hey,” he said softly, as he reached over the table to take both her hands in his. “This is just something we’re going to have to get used to. Martin says that over time the nightmares will be less…intense and frequent. But they’ll probably always be a part of me. I’m just glad we have a method of dealing with them now – even though I know you hate it.”

She nodded, then looked down at their entwined hands. His so large and strong, with calluses from years of archery and Eskrima stick training. Hers small and soft, with chipped bright green nail polish. 

They were such a contradiction – pure opposites both physically and personality-wise. But they worked. And they worked so well, sometimes it scared her. 

She’d always had a fierce independent streak and never believed that a man was needed to make her whole. But without knowing it, there had been a small, lost part of herself, rattling loose inside of her. And being with Oliver, it made that final jigsaw piece click into place.  

“Speaking of dealing with it,” Oliver said, jerking her out of her reverie, his voice hesitant and uncertain. “How…what would you like me to do when you have a nightmare?”

Her immediate instinct was denial. She opened her mouth to brush him off but was stopped by the knowing look in his eyes. “I know you have them, Felicity. And you’ve been through some nightmare-inducing stuff over the past few years so it’s not surprising. I’d just like to know what to do for you. Do you need me to pull you out of them? Do you need space when you do wake up?”

She could tell this was important to him – to be able to support her in return. So she answered honestly. “The opposite really.” She concentrated on their hands as she spoke, feeling vulnerable and not up to meeting his eyes. “I’ve said it before – I’m a walking abandonment issue. I need you close to me. I need to know you’re there. So just…hold me.”

“That I can do,” he vowed as he raised her hands to his lips. 

 

**\------------------------**

 

“Felicity,” Oliver whispered into her ear. 

“G’way,” she mumbled in response while pulling the covers up around her shoulders. She rubbed her cheek against the pillow, nestling into her warm cocoon like a sleepy cat. 

“Wake up,” he crooned, then blew gently on the exposed skin of her face.

“O’lver!” This was said with more annoyance. She swatted ineffectually at him as he leaned over her, then sighed and finally opened her eyes. 

“Why are you dressed?” she asked, her eyebrows crinkling in confusion as she looked up at him. He was standing next to her side of the bed, wearing jeans and a zipped-up leather jacket. 

Then came the rush of fear that accompanied unexpected wake-up calls in the middle of the night. She flipped back the covers, sat up, and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Squinting at the blurry digital numbers on the alarm clock beside her, she saw the time.

02:34.

_ Nothing good ever happened after midnight. _

“What’s wrong? Is someone hurt? Is it Thea? John?”

“Hey, no, calm down,” Oliver said as he crouched down in front of her, his hands coming to rest on her bare legs. He rubbed at the goose-pimpled skin and smiled at her in reassurance. “I didn’t mean to freak you out - this is supposed to be a nice surprise.”

“At 2:30 in the morning?”

“Yup. Get up, get dressed and come downstairs.” 

He stood up and turned to leave but she caught his wrist to stop him. “Are you sure nothing’s wrong?”

“Positive,” he replied, bending over to kiss her forehead, “wear your boots and something warm - we’re going on the bike.”

“The bike?” she said excitedly. She couldn’t help the smile that broke out on her face. 

She _loved_ the bike.

“Yes,” he chuckled. “Now move - we don’t want to miss the start.”

With that cryptic remark, he left their bedroom. “Such an adrenaline junkie,” she heard him mutter to himself in amusement as he descended the stairs.

It was true. She was scared of anything that involved heights but put her in something fast and dangerous closer to the ground and she was in heaven.

Oliver first discovered this about her during their Porsche ride out of Starling – the quicker he accelerated, the more she squealed in delight, loving the feeling of being pushed back in her seat by the raw horsepower. 

Then there were the jet-skis in Bali. She’d insisted they get one each so they could race. (She won. And he was a surprisingly sore loser - he grumbled about weight differences and centres of gravity for hours afterward).

After getting to know this side of her, he’d tried to convince her to take a helicopter tour of Positano – which she’d quickly nixed. 

“But you flew Ray’s super suit,” he’d argued. 

“I had my eyes closed almost the entire time Oliver.” 

“What!?” He’d sounded horrified by that notion. 

“I needed to be in the suit,” she’d explained, “because the mechanics are linked to pressure sensors which are calibrated for a human weight. But Ray piloted and controlled it remotely. I was just a passenger.” 

“So you were hundreds of feet in the air in a tin can and you weren’t even in control of it.” He shook his head in disbelief.

“Well I mean it’s not tin – it’s a state of the art titanium composite alloy, but…basically, yes.” 

He’d looked at her then with something resembling awe on his face. She’d just shrugged. “You were in trouble, what else could I do.” 

He’d kissed her, deeply – almost desperately – in response and went off to organise the boat trip their guide had suggested earlier. 

The first time he took her out on his motorbike was the realisation of a three-year long fantasy and she’d adored every minute of it. The speed, the danger, the wind rushing past them; and most of all, the incredibly close contact between them. Her thighs spread wide to slot around his narrow hips. Her front plastered against his back, letting her feel every flex of muscle as he steered the bike; her arms wrapped tightly around him and her hands splayed over his hard abs…  

God knows how she would have survived if it had happened before they started having all the sex. She had dismounted the bike a warm puddle of want and lust in the vague shape of a woman and she’d basically attacked him. They’d had fast, hard sex in their garage, her bent over the hood of the Porsche and him pumping into her from behind. They’d both come in seconds, proving that he had been just as affected by the ride as her. 

They didn’t take the bike out together too often, preferring to keep it an occasional treat. 

One that he obviously wanted to give her tonight. 

She jumped out of bed, threw on her warmest clothes then bounded down the stairs.

She found him in the garage where he was loading the bike’s little storage compartment. He snapped it closed then picked up her helmet and handed it to her.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Yup. Where are we going?”

“You’ll see,” he replied and she could tell by his little smirk that he was enjoying keeping her in suspense. 

“You know I hate mysteries, Oliver,” she pouted as she buckled the chin strap.  

“It won’t be a mystery for long, I promise.” He mounted the bike and waited for her to get in position before starting the engine. 

“Do you remember the rules?” he asked, as she snaked her arms around his waist. 

“Stay close to you, keep my feet on the pegs, lean when you lean, and no sudden movements,” she recited dutifully. Her reckless vigilante was very big on safety.

“Good,” he said, giving her clasped hands a pat.

And then they were off.  

Through their quiet suburb, the bike crawling below the speed limit so as not to disturb sleeping neighbours. And then on to the highway, picking up speed until they were slicing through the night, the late hour and empty road making her feel as if they were the only two people on earth. 

It felt like a clandestine escape. 

An adventure.

Just the two of them. In silent synchronicity - working  just as well together on his bike as they had done on Team Arrow. She anticipated his every move, and trusted him implicitly to keep her safe. 

All too soon, she felt the bike coast to a stop. Her need to solve the enigma of the outing at war with her desire for them to just keep riding through the night. 

But the mystery won out.

She took off her helmet and glanced around at their surroundings. They were on a bluff overlooking the city, a sea of lights below them and a blanket of stars above. 

She followed Oliver in silent curiosity as he unpacked the bike and laid down a rug on the dew-moistened grass. Once they were both settled on the ground, he poured her a small cup of warm brown liquid from a thermos.

“Coffee?” she asked, wrapping her slightly chilled hands around the cup.

“Hot chocolate with a dash of nutmeg.”

She arched an eyebrow at him as she breathed in the spicy aroma. “Nutmeg but no marshmallows? That’s a bit pretentious-chef even for you,” she joked. 

In reply he reached into his jacket pocket and produced a small zip-loc bag of pink mini-marshmallows, which he opened and offered to her. 

She laughed and grabbed a handful. “Perfect, thank you."

They sipped at their drinks for long moments and he seemed content just to gaze out at the lights below. She knew there must be more to this little expedition than hot chocolate, but she decided to wait for him to tell her.  

Her patience was rewarded when he eventually spoke. “I wanted to do something to thank you - for being so understanding, these last couple of months.”

“You don’t need to thank me, Oliver. We’re a team - I’ll always have your back." 

“I know, but you deserve it all the same. And your story about your Dad and the telescope…it got me thinking. I hate how something you loved - the stars, astronomy - was tainted by that memory. So I wanted to give you a new memory. Kind of like how you got your tattoo after I had mine removed. Replacing the bad with the good.”

“Okay…” she replied, touched by the thought, but still not understanding what they were doing there. 

He gave her a shy smile, took her drink from her and said, “lie back.”

When she did, her eyes were drawn to the endless sky above. And she gasped.

Shooting stars.

One after another, the tiny arrows of light pierced the velvety black night then blinked out of existence. There were so many, they arched over her like a celestial river.

It was beautiful. 

Mesmerising. 

She lost track of time, as she fell back in love with the stars. 

_ Sometimes good things did happen after midnight. _

The flow of meteors eventually slowed and she finally turned her head to the man lying beside her. She gave him a tremulous smile and whispered, “thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he replied, just as quietly. They both turned their gaze back to the sky, the twinkling lights of a billion distant suns still visible, but dimming in the faint glow of the approaching sunrise. 

The sheer expanse of it brought to mind one of her favourite quotes. “ _‘For small creatures such as we, the vastness is bearable only through love.’_ ” 

“What’s that from?” Oliver asked.

“It’s just something Carl Sagan wrote - in Contact.”

“I think I saw that movie once. I always liked that thing he said about the pale blue dot.”

“' _Every saint and sinner in the history of our species lived there — on a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam,''_ ” she recited. 

“Yeah. I always took comfort from that. That it doesn’t matter what problems you have, we’re all just an insignificant speck of dirt in the universe.”

She frowned at him, “that’s a pretty pessimistic way of looking at it.”

“I don’t think so. It just means, don’t sweat the small stuff - look at the big picture, instead.”

“I guess…I always thought it was more positive and awe-inspiring than that. In all the vast, enormous cosmos, we may be the only planet that had the right set of circumstances to foster life. That makes us incredibly lucky, so we shouldn’t waste our time here. We should love our fellow man because we’re all each other has - there’s no one else out there.”

“The vastness is bearable only through love,” He repeated her words back to her with a smile.

”Exactly,” she said, then she leaned over to kiss him. 


	7. Chapter 7

“So how’s your day been so far?” Martin asked after he’d greeted Oliver at the office door with a handshake.

“Good. Took Felicity out for brunch and then went for a run.”

Martin cocked his head to the side and regarded Oliver thoughtfully, “Why do you run?”

Oliver was a bit taken aback by the question. “For exercise,” he said slowly, as if that was obvious.

“But you’ve mentioned a couple of times that you run after you’ve had a particularly bad episode - it seems to be your go-to method of dealing with your nightmares and intrusive memories. That’s not for the exercise, so I’m wondering what you get out of it.”

“It…shuts down my thoughts. My mind goes blank so there’s nothing to concentrate on but the burn of my muscles.”

“You’ve also mentioned that you’ve run yourself to the point of exhaustion on more than one occasion.”

“What exactly is your point, Martin?” Oliver asked, starting to get a bit defensive.

Martin held up a placating hand. “It’s my role as your therapist to encourage healthy coping strategies. Studies have shown that exercising can be extremely beneficial for people with PTSD - it can reduce anxiety levels by promoting increased feelings of control over one’s body, and the endorphin release acts as a natural anti-depressive.”

“But…,” Oliver said, sensing the doctor still had more to say.

“But there’s a difference between that type of healthy release, and using exercise as a means to punish yourself.”

Oliver thought back to his first few months in Starling City after the island and how he would work-out till his muscles screamed and he was dizzy with dehydration. At the time it had all been in the name of preparation - an attempt to hone himself into the ultimate weapon. But there probably was an element of punishment involved too.

But…he didn’t think that was the case now. “My daily runs are just…exercise. I enjoy keeping fit and active…”

“But…” It was Martin’s turn to prompt the conversation now.

“When I run after a nightmare or something, I agree that’s…different. But it’s not punishment. It’s…distraction.”

“Avoidance?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

It probably was the better definition; and Oliver recognised it as a habit from the past few years - he had often resorted to fighting and training to avoid people and difficult conversations. And his own thoughts. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“With most things in life, it’s a question of moderation,” Martin answered. “It’s natural to want to avoid thinking about or feeling emotions about a stressful event. But when avoidance is extreme, or when it’s the main way you cope, it can interfere with your emotional recovery and healing.”

Oliver pressed his lips together in concern, but Martin gave him a reassuring smile. “I don’t think that’s the case with you, Oliver - you’ve been willing to discuss your memories in order to process the trauma and minimise the effects. And you took on my suggestion of keeping a diary - how’s that been going, by the way?”

“It’s been…surprisingly helpful.”

Oliver had initially been sceptical - his only past experience with journalling had been watching Thea scribbling seriously in her glittery purple diary, and, of course, crossing names off in his father’s notebook.

But Martin had listed numerous benefits - keeping a track of what brought on stress and anxiety, what triggered his flashbacks and nightmares; using it to reflect on his memories, and giving him a record of his progress. So Oliver had given it a go, and had been amazed at how natural he’d found the process. He now spent at least half an hour every night chronicling past events he hadn’t yet been able to share with anyone. It was a way to order his thoughts and feelings. And it was tangible proof of the things he’d survived. Seeing it all written out in ink - all his pain and suffering, all the things he’d done and been forced to do - it gave some credence to Felicity’s claims that he’d come far.

That he deserved his current happiness.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Martin responded sincerely. “Now, the next time you run in response to an adverse stimuli, I want you to try something for me.”

“Okay,” Oliver said, willing to try almost anything the doctor suggested - his trust in him had not been misplaced so far.

“Don’t run as a way to numb yourself. Use it to ground you to the here and now. Look outward. Take note of the colour of the leaves on the trees, the sound of the birds singing, the children laughing in the playground. Acknowledge your neighbours as you pass them. Use it as a way to remind yourself that you’re alive, safe and in a good place. Hopefully, that will put you in the right frame of mind to start processing the trauma that triggered that need to escape.”

 

\-------------------------

 

When he returned home later that afternoon, he found Felicity at the dining room table, focused intently on her laptop.

At his soft, “Hey,” she visibly startled and slammed the laptop shut. “Hi,” she said, in a too-bright voice.

“Porn?” he teased.

She graced him with a wry smile. “Very funny. No, it was just some…research for... someone. How was your session?”

He could see straight through that change in topic, but decided to ignore it for now. “It was good - Martin had some more suggestions to try.”

“Oh, like what?” she asked, as he shrugged out of his jacket and took a seat opposite her at the table.

“We spoke about what I do to pass the time - I think he’s a bit concerned that I don’t have a job and just mope about here all day.”

“You could get a job if you wanted to.”

“Not much call on the job market for ex-billionaires with impeccable aim,” he joked, in a call back to their conversation on Lian Yu a couple of years ago. “Besides, I kinda like having a sugar mama.”

It turned out that Ray had signed over Palmer Tech to Felicity before his death and she was the new CEO. There had been some sort of misfiling error with the paperwork and it had only come to light a few weeks ago.

She’d been stunned at the news.

And he’d been worried.

Not that she couldn’t handle it - he had a lot more faith in her than she had in herself, in that regard. He was worried what it would mean for the life they were building in Ivy Town. He was at peace here, with her, in a way he’d never been before. And the thought of returning to Starling - no, Star City - gave him cold sweats. He loved his home city, but it had a core of darkness he was terrified of falling into again.

Fortunately for him, she seemed content to teleconference with the board and liaise with her assistant from here.

She smiled at the ‘sugar mama’ moniker but there was a hint of strain to it. “Don’t get too used to it. The board aren’t happy with me at the moment - I have a feeling they’d like nothing more than to boot me out.”

“Can they do that?”

“I don’t actually know. Gerry’s arranging for a lawyer to fly out here to discuss the legalities of it all.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” he said in an effort to comfort her. “Ray trusted you with his legacy - just focus on that.” The words left a slightly sour note in his mouth, but he’d developed a grudging sliver of respect for the man for his actions last May and his last wishes deserved to be honoured.

She smiled again, this time with a bit more levity. “So tell me more about Martin’s suggestions.”

“In a word - hobbies. Something to keep me active and motivated.”

She clapped her hands once in excitement and jumped to her feet. “Perfect,” she exclaimed as she rummaged in the purse that was hanging on the back of one of the vacant chairs. When she found what she was searching for, she came around the table to sit in his lap, then handed him a plain white envelope.

“What’s this?”

“It’s something I bought last week. I didn’t know when would be the best time to give it to you - I thought about calling it a belated four month anniversary present, but I always thought people who celebrated those things were kind of lame. And then I started wondering whether you would even like it, so…” She bit her bottom lip, her excitement suddenly diffusing into uncertainty.

He opened the envelope to find an annual pass in his name to the Huntsinger Forest Archery Range.

Before he could say anything, she resumed her babbling, “It’s just that when you told me your ‘tick’ was about the bowstring, I figured maybe this would help you. But then I thought, what if all the memories surrounding archery were too negative and it would do more harm than good…” Her voice trailed off and she looked at him with uncertainty.

He placed the pass on the table and wrapped both arms around her. “Thank you,” he said, sincerely.

She brought one of her hands up to rub across his back; with the other she brushed her knuckles across his bristly cheek. “Thank you as in, ‘I appreciate the thought, but no way’. Or thank you, as in ‘I love it, you’re an amazing, insightful girlfriend.’”

“Definitely the second one,” he replied with a smile.

She breathed out a sigh of relief and brought his head down to rest against her chest. He nestled into her with a sigh of his own and they sat like that for a few long moments.

Archery was a skill he’d had to for master for survival, to save his life, and the life of his friends. And it was a method he’d used for torture in Hong Kong, and a weapon to kill his enemies in Starling. But despite all that, his memories associated with it weren’t all bad.

He remembered Shado teaching him, how it had become a kind of foreplay for them. He recalled the feeling of satisfaction when his arrows had started hitting the intended targets instead of flying wide. Years later, he’d passed the knowledge on to Roy, and he’d always felt a little flicker of pride each time the younger man had aimed true.

It was something he excelled at. A skill that he’d mastered. And just the thought of nocking an arrow and letting it fly had his muscles twitching in anticipation.

But it hadn’t occurred to him, that this could be something he’d enjoy removed from his life in Starling. Yet again, Felicity proved she knew him better than he knew himself.

“You’re amazing,” he said, leaning back from her embrace to look up at her. “I don’t deserve you.”

The smile that had started with his praise, dropped from her face with that second declaration. “I hate when you say that, Oliver. I’m not some…prize you should strive to be better for. Don’t put me on a pedestal - I’m not perfect by any means.”

“I know that.”

“Prove it - tell me something about me that annoys you.”

He laughed and shook his head, seeing that for the trap it was. “There is no way I can answer that without getting in trouble.”

“You won’t. I’m serious, Oliver - I need to know that you see me for the real me, not some…idealised version. I’ll start - I’m a disaster in the kitchen.”

“That doesn’t annoy me. I think it’s sweet that you keep trying and, besides, I like cooking for us.”

She tried again. “I sing - badly - in the car. As soon as the engine starts I get this pavlovian urge to belt out show tunes.”

“That’s endearing,” he countered.

“I snore! You admitted that the other day!”

“It’s more like a cute little grumble now and again.”

“I get irrationally angry when you change the thermostat settings.”

“I know - you stamp your foot and everything. It’s adorable.”

“Oliver,” she growled in annoyance. “There must be something I do that drives you nuts.”

He could see that, for some reason, this was really important to her. So he relented. “Okay, okay. You steal my towel.”

“I steal…your towel,” she repeated slowly.

“Yeah. We have, like nine towels, but you always steal mine. I have one towel that’s big enough to wrap around me, and you have all the other eight. But you still use mine!”

She gaped at him for a moment. Then shook her head and snapped her mouth closed. “Okay. That…clearly does bother you. I’ll try to work on that.”

“I’d appreciate that,” he replied, pecking her on her shoulder.

But, as usual, she wouldn’t let him have the last word.

“And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t throw your one wet towel on my side of the bed.”


	8. Chapter 8

“I’m going to ask Felicity to marry me.” Oliver said to Martin, the words tumbling quickly from his lips almost without conscious thought.

He couldn’t keep it to himself any longer. Now that the decision was made, he was excited. When he was younger, he’d always expected Tommy would be there to share this with him. They’d joke about ball and chains and the end of eras but his best friend would support him, be happy for him. And, of course, plan the bachelor party to end all bachelor parties. 

But their friendship was never the same after he returned to Starling - even before Tommy had known his secret, and the whole mess with Laurel had happened. 

Diggle had slowly taken Tommy’s place as his confidante. As the person he went to for advice. And that advice came with the quiet wisdom born of a hard life well lived. Diggle was his inspiration. A soldier who came out the other side balanced and healthy, who wasn’t afraid to be with the woman he loved. 

Dig had always rooted for him and Felicity. And Oliver would have liked nothing more than to tell him he’d finally gotten his act together. That he was ready for a life with Felicity.

But their friendship was…fractured. He refused to believe it was destroyed beyond repair. But reparations were difficult when you lived in different states - and when the two men involved were just as stubborn as each other. 

So his childhood best friend was gone. 

His brother (by every non-biological definition) was angry and disappointed in him. 

He couldn’t tell Felicity, his current best friend, for obvious reasons.

He harboured a life-changing secret that he was, for once, desperate to share with the world. Only there was no one to tell.

The irony was not lost on Oliver.

So he told his therapist. Blurted it out, really. Apropos of nothing and before the man had even had time to settle in to his chair. 

But the reaction he received was unexpected.  

And unwelcome.

“That’s a big step.”

Martin was a fairly inscrutable man, a trait Oliver supposed came in handy when part of his job was to be an impassive sounding board. But ever the keen observer, Oliver had managed, over the past couple of months, to decipher Martin’s facial expressions and the change in inflections in his speech. 

The slight uptick of his left eyebrow told Oliver that he had taken him by surprise, and the emphasis on the word ‘step’ let Oliver know he didn’t fully approve. 

“You think it’s a mistake.”

“No, not a mistake,” Martin replied slowly, “as a happily married man I can heartily recommend the institution. For most, it’s a logical progression when you love someone, and I don’t doubt you love Felicity – I’ve seen the two of you together remember.” 

“But…” Oliver prompted, his mood having plummeted in the last few minutes. 

“Be sure of the timing. You two have only been together for a matter of months. You’ve often spoke of ‘a normal life with her’ as your end goal and whilst I’m against terms such as ‘normal’ and ‘abnormal’, I understand what it is you’re trying to accomplish. And you’ve come so far since we started our sessions - the man I see before me is lighter and more open to embracing his happiness. Just…don’t rush the process. 

Being a married man - even a happily married man - won’t be some shortcut to mental health.” 

 

\---------------

 

Oliver tried to concentrate on the metronome beat of his feet impacting the pavement as he ran through the neighbourhood. The repetitive, automatic motion usually served to calm Oliver, but his thoughts had been churning since his session the day before and not even the run was helping.

He’d been riding a wave of optimism ever since his talk with Thea, and during the past couple of weeks his vision of the future had crystallised in his mind. And he’d formed a plan.

_ Step 1, find a ring. _

_ Step 2, propose to Felicity. _

_ Step 3, live happily ever after. Or their version of it, anyway. _

The first step had been easy. His mother had left him her engagement ring and wedding band in her will (his grandmother’s ring had passed to Thea when she was still a little girl). He’d hesitated at first, knowing that his girlfriend and his mother had never had the best relationship. But he actually saw a lot of Moira in Felicity. She was confident, smart and brave. She would do anything for the people she loved. And she had a ruthless streak and a somewhat greyer than black and white morality that had saved his life more than once. 

Besides, the ring was gorgeous and elegant (according to Thea) and had a massive rock (which even he could appreciate); considering he was currently unemployed, he wouldn’t be able to afford anything even close to its quality.

So with step 1 accomplished, his thoughts turned to step 2.

A simple affair or a grand gesture? Public or private? Cheesy or romantic? 

He eventually decided on simple, private, and romantic. He’d cook dinner. There’d be candles and music. And during dessert, he’d tell her how much he loved her. How she’d allowed him to get in touch with pieces of his personality he thought were long gone. And how she’d revealed in him aspects to his character that he never knew were there. He’d planned to tell her she made him a better person and that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her.

But now he was doubting himself 

And doubting Felicity’s answer. They’d never discussed the future in any concrete way. And she _was_ five years younger than him, so maybe she was in a different place emotionally…

Was Martin right? That proposing to Felicity was more about him trying to stick a patch on his mental health? They _had_ only been together for a little over four months… 

But on the other hand, Martin was guilty of viewing his relationship with Felicitythrough his own conventional frame of reference. And they were anything but conventional - their relationship wasn’t measured in time. It was measured in experience. 

Oliver lived for years never knowing if there would be a future beyond the next sunrise. He understood, better than most, how fragile life could be. 

And Felicity’s determination, after Sara’s death, to make the most out of her life assured him she felt the same way too. 

Neither of them was taking this happiness for granted. And if he was jumping the gun a bit to give them a lifetime of that happiness….well, so what. 

She deserved it.

“Oliver!”

His stride faltered as he was jerked out of his thoughts by the sound of his name. He looked to his left and spotted one of the neighbours waving him over. She was a bit older than him, with dark hair…Laura Hoffman. Married to Adam Hoffman. Three kids. Originally from Coast City. She was a housewife and he was an accountant at a big law firm. No criminal records. 

He detoured off the road and jogged up their driveway, just as Adam came out the front door carrying weeding tools. 

“Hi there!” Laura said as he came to a stop in front of her, panting slightly from the exertion of his run.He shook Adam’s hand as Laura continued speaking in an excited chatter. “I’m so glad I caught you! I’m dying to know how that slow cooker's been working out for you.”

“It’s been great,” Oliver said a little hesitantly. Having never had proper neighbours before, he was a little new to the specific social niceties involved in these types of conversations. But he was trying to be a better man, and that involved trusting strangers and having faith that not everyone was out to get him. It also involved being himself, and not donning the insincere rich-boy charmer veneer he used to hide behind. 

So he forced himself to relax, and smiled at the couple “I tried out that casserole recipe you gave me and Felicity loved it.”

“I’m so glad to hear that! she replied. “You and Felicity should come over one night for dinner - I’ll do a roast.”

“That sounds…nice,” Oliver said, not quite sure how Felicity would respond to the invitation. The former Vegas girl seemed even more out of her depth in suburbia than he was.  

“Great! It’s always good to have new faces in the neighbourhood, and you two seem like such a nice couple. How long have you been together?” 

“Um, almost five months.”

“Ha!” Adam exclaimed. “You owe me 10 bucks, honey!”

Off Oliver’s confused expression, Laura explained “I was convinced you two had been together for years – college sweethearts even. You just seemed so comfortable with each other - like an old married couple. But he,” she said, jerking her thumb at her husband “thought you were still in the honeymoon phase. So we placed a little bet.”

“Which I won!” He crowed.

“Lord, he is never gonna let me forget that,” she said with a roll of her eyes.

“Only because you fancy yourself a bit of a relationship expert,” Adam teased.

“Because I’m usually so good at judging these things!” She whined. “I knew the Butlers down the street were headed for divorce. And I guessed Jake Steele would be perfect for Amy Sanders – look at them now, they just adopted a puppy together!” She shook her head, then peered up at Oliver suspiciously, “I could have sworn you two were on the brink of marriage.” 

Oliver choked out a laugh, “Well, actually…I am planning to propose.” 

Laura immediately squealed in delight and threw a gloating look at her husband. Adam ignored it and offered Oliver his hand again, this time in congratulations. 

Oliver had surprised himself by sharing something so private with two people who, extensive background check aside, were relative strangers. But he hadn’t received the positive reaction he’d been expecting when he’d told Martin. So maybe he was hoping their enthusiasm and support would bolster his resolve and restore his own excitement over the prospect of proposing. 

He said goodbye to the couple and continued his jog home, his mind still sifting through his thoughts on his relationship with Felicity. 

It was interesting that, to the outside, they appeared both newly in love and like an established, settled couple. 

It was probably because there was no real delineation, at least to him, between the stages of their relationship. When did their working partnership become a friendship? When did he start to think of her beyond a friend and in terms of forever?

Was it with a crushed look across an open hotel room door in Russia?

Was it with three arrows through the Count’s chest?

Was it an embrace in a clocktower while the city burned around them?

All he knows is that _they_ didn’t start in a Porsche on an open road. They didn’t start with a stolen night in Nanda Parbat – that was just a culmination of years of longing looks and hesitant touches and furtive declarations. 

They didn’t even start over a candlelit table in an Italian restaurant.

He can’t recall the beginning of them. 

And he hopes he never sees the end.

 

\-------------

 

He opened their front door and strolled towards the kitchen, expecting the usual smile and bright hello. He loved that Felicity always seemed so happy to see him - like he was returning from war, and not just his daily run. 

It was something he hadn’t experienced in years. The Queen mansion was hardly a cosy abode – you could go hours without running into another person – and living with Thea had been more like staying with a seldom-seen roommate. 

So having a warm presence to welcome him home with smiles and open arms…It was yet another thing he’d simultaneously become accustomed to and was terrified of taking for granted. 

“Damn it!” Felicity growled, as he came through the archway to find her sitting at the dining room table. When she lifted her head, she met his surprised gaze with a furrowed brow and murder in her eyes. 

This was not the usual greeting. 

“What’s wrong? What happened?” he asked in confusion. She’d been in a great mood this morning - waking up with his head between her legs tended to have that effect on her. They’d had a nice breakfast out back, he’d left for his run, and she’d set up for her Skype meeting with…

“What did the Board say now?”

“Everything!” She replied, confirming the source of her foul mood. “Every single bad report and impending disaster and worst case scenario for Palmer Tech was trotted out and I just sat here – for a full hour! – listening to it. Because I don’t have any solutions! I don’t know how to fix a multi-billion-dollar corporation! I’m just an IT girl.” 

She slumped back in her chair, pulled off her glasses and started to massage her temples. She was the picture of defeat, and he hated seeing her like that. 

“Hey,” he said, coming around to stand behind her. He dug his fingers into her tense shoulders and started rubbing. “You are not – and have never been – _just_ an IT girl. You are Felicity Smoak,“ he said, trying to infuse those five syllables with all the pride and amazement he felt for her. 

“And I bet you’re smarter than all of those,” he jerked his head at the closed laptop, “guys combined.”

“That’s true,” she mumbled, her head falling forward with a groan of relief at his clever fingers. “But all they see is a young blond who was sleeping with the CEO and who’s now all of a sudden in charge. They don’t respect me. And they make me doubt myself – which I _hate_.”

He kissed the top of her head and tried to think of what to say – she was the expert pep-talker in their relationship, not him. “You don’t have to prove anything to them. Ray trusted you with his company – with his legacy –concentrate on that.”

“But the reason the company is in so much trouble is because he trusted the wrong people. He was so preoccupied with getting his suit to work, he delegated the running of the company to people who didn’t have its best interests at heart.”

“Well the fact that you’ve figured that out – and that you’re so concerned with the company’s best interests - tells me he was right to trust _you_.”

A non-committal, “Hmmm,” was all the response he got. So he changed tacks. “There’s nothing you can do to magically fix the company today, so let’s do something to take your mind off it - come to the archery range with me.”

She tilted her head back and gave him a surprised look, “What?”

He motioned towards the door – and the beautiful day outside – with a nod of his head, “Let’s go. Get some fresh air – it’ll help you relax.”

“You and I have very different definitions of relaxation, Oliver. Mine usually involves bubble baths and mint chip ice cream, not the great outdoors and projectile weapons.” 

“You can do that after. Come on,” he tapped her lightly on the arms then stepped to the side so she could push her chair back. Despite her words – and the sceptical expression on her face – she stood up and followed him towards the coat rack by the front door. 

Shrugging into her light weight jacket, she peered up at him with slightly worried eyes, “Are you sure it’s okay that I tag along? I don’t want to intrude on your thing.”

“I want to share my thing with you,” he replied, then instantly screwed his eyes shut in regret when she laughed.

“Wow, that was a Smoak-worthy innuendo there. I must be rubbing off on you!”

“Maybe if I start babbling, we'll know for sure that’s the case.”

“Hey! I object to the term babbling – I prefer…involuntary verbal word association.” 

He laughed at that as they exited the house, and the ride across town and through the forest was filled with traded smiles and clasped hands.

As they pulled into the compound, Oliver felt a spark of excitement to be sharing this with her. Back in Starling, he’d shied away from the thought of teaching her to shoot and had rejected outright her pleas for self-defence teaching. Objectively, he knew training her was the logical thing to do – and he was glad Diggle had taught her some basic manoeuvres – but the thought of her fighting…he preferred her as far removed from that kind of life as possible. After Sara and Helena…he didn’t want another woman in his life tainted by that kind of darkness. 

But now…this was a chance to have fun.

He held the heavy wood door of the cabin open for her and followed her into the darkened room, pausing for a few seconds to let his eyes adjust after the brightness of the sunshine outside.

“Hey Oliver.” This came from the dark-haired teenager manning the equipment counter. 

“Hi Nate,” Oliver responded. “Where’s your Dad?”

“I’m here,” boomed a voice from the indoor range next door. The room instantly shrunk in size as 6’6” former bouncer Noah Granger stepped through the archway joining the two rooms. “How’s it going, Oliver? And who’s this?” The man’s attention was instantly diverted by Felicity, who was standing at the counter, leafing through the tourist brochures on display. 

“This is my girlfriend, Felicity.”

“A pretty name for a pretty lady,” Noah replied, shaking Felicity’s outstretched hand gently.

“Okay,” Oliver said, stepping closer to Felicity and putting his arm around her in a territorial display he was helpless to stop. She leaned into him as Noah dropped her hand, then tapped him on the chest, “Play nice, Oliver”.

“I am nice,” he grumbled under his breath. He knew the other man was devoted to his wife and was just playing around, but, still…

Noah chuckled knowingly. “She shooting today?” he asked Oliver.

“Yeah, if that’s okay. She’s a beginner but I’m fine to show her the ropes.” 

“I trust you, Oliver.” Noah liked to get an idea of the skill level of his regulars, so he’d put Oliver through his paces on his first visit. Even after dumbing down his skill level, Oliver had still impressed the man. “Nate, measure her up for a recurve, 25lb maximum draw weight.”

“Got it,” the youngster replied. “Can you step this way, ma’am.”

Felicity shot Oliver an amused look and mouthed the word ‘ma’am’, before joining Nate at the equipment rack. Once she was outfitted in all the necessary gear they started the trek out to the target range. 

Unsurprisingly given the time of day, they had the field to themselves. As Oliver talked her through the features of the bow and the theory behind the design, he could see the tension and frustration from the earlier meeting with the PT board melt away, until she was buzzing with excited energy and bouncing on the balls of her toes.  

“Normally I’d be encouraging this whole Professor-vibe thing you’ve got going on, but I just want to shoot, Oliver!” she said.

Unable to resist her beseeching grin, he quickly manoeuvred her into the correct position, then stood behind her to take some of the weight of the bow while she got accustomed to it. Then he guided her through the motion of nocking an arrow, pulling back the drawstring and aiming. 

“Got it?” he asked. She gave a quick nod so he stepped back. She took a deep breath, exhaled…and released.  

The arrow fell short of the target. 

Her shoulders slumped and her bottom lip protruded in a hint of a pout. Hiding his smile, Oliver offered some more guidance. “Try removing your jacket, I think the string connected a bit so it took away some of the power.”

She shrugged out of the garment then resumed her position. The next few arrows went the distance but they all missed the target stand. She huffed out a breath of frustration, the tension back in her frame, and he started to doubt the relaxation benefits of this activity. He should have known his genius, over-achieving girlfriend would get annoyed when she couldn’t perfect something straight away. “You’re doing great,” he said, putting his hand on her shoulder. “Much better than I did as a beginner.”

She rolled her eyes at him and shrugged off his hand. “Don’t placate me Oliver - teach me.” 

Well this definitely wasn’t going the way he’d expected. He’d envisaged close contact and laughter and fun – not annoyance and irritation. But she seemed determined, so he offered her suggestions on improving her stance and adjusting her anchor point. 

And, braving the risk of getting his head bitten off, he commented on her attitude. “A good shot comes from within,” he said, repeating something Yao Fe had once told him. “If you’re in the right frame of mind, you’ll be able to feel the shot, and know its on target. So relax. Loosen up. Work on getting a good foundation and ignore where the arrow is landing for now.”

She complied. And after a half-dozen more attempts, with some further advice from him - and some creative swearing on her part - an arrow finally embedded in the target. 

“Yes!” she yelled, raising both arms (bow included) in the air. He ducked out of the way of the weapon then swooped her up from behind for a hug.

“Amazing,” he said when he returned her to the ground. 

She cast him a beaming smile over her shoulder. “Thanks for being so patient – I should have warned you I was a bit of a nightmare student.”

“I wouldn’t have you any other way.”

“You big sap,” she said with a fond smile. She then turned her attention back to the target. “How many arrows do I have left? I want to hit the bullseye before we go home.”

He checked her quiver. “Eight more. If you hit the bullseye with one of those, I’ll take you out for dinner.”

“I want dinner and a movie.”

“Done.”

He watched her as she took aim, the way her brow crinkled and she bit her lower lip in concentration. And he allowed his thoughts to wander. He imagined, a year from now…maybe he’d be introducing her to strangers with a different term than ‘girlfriend’. _‘This is my wife, Felicity,’_ he’d say. Or even just _‘My wife, Felicity Queen.’_  

Would she take his name? He didn’t care either way if he was honest. Being married to her wasn’t about owning her, or tying her to him – he wasn’t naïve to think a piece of paper and a ring guaranteed permanency in a relationship, and he’d like to think he was more evolved than that. 

It was more about him…belonging to her. With her.

This relationship they’d created – through tears, and hardship and passion and joy – was the most important thing in his life. And he wanted to honour that. To let the world know that they loved each other. Had chosen each other. 

That she had chosen him. 

Felicity Smoak, the smartest, most compassionate, most…extraordinary woman he’d ever known…had chosen him. Had seen in him something that was good and pure and…deserving. She was his human credential. 

And he wanted to be her husband. 

And that thought brought with it nothing but excitement and anticipation. No doubts about the timing, or insecurities about her answer. No anxiety or fear over the depth of that kind of commitment. 

He wanted to propose.

He was going to propose. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So did Felicity hit the bullseye? You decide...  
> Also did anyone else spot the obscure X-files/MSR reference?


	9. Epilogue

He didn’t propose.  
   
Standing on the threshold of their kitchen, soufflés in hand and speech running through his head, the sight of his sister and ex-girlfriend had been a metaphorical bucket of ice water to the face. The bubble of happiness and simplicity that he’d shared with Felicity had been pricked by danger and obligation, and he was left blinking in the harsh reality of life beyond the two of them and their cosy life together.  
   
But…after journeying back to Star City, and even after his first time back out in the field in months, he’d still naively believed they could return to that life. He’d carried around his mother’s engagement ring in his pocket - a tangible reminder of what he wanted to get back to - as if the proposal was only on hold and they would soon resume their idyllic suburban life.  
   
Until he discovered that Felicity had always regarded it as far from idyllic.  
   
To be fair, the signs had been there all along that she’d been working with the team – hastily closed laptops, aborted phone calls, guilty looks - he’d just chosen to ignore them. And he’d ignored her less than enthusiastic response to their neighbour’s invites and her subtle snipes at their lives. The depth of his denial spoke of how desperate he was to conform, to lead a simple life.  
   
But just as Felicity had missed their vigilante life – and the sense of purpose it gave her - so had he. The five months away and out of danger had been sorely needed - a time to heal and reflect. But that life was lacking any sense of permanency. They’d chosen to rent a house instead of buy one; he had never considered getting a job, and Felicity was telecommunicating as CEO of a multibillion dollar conglomerate, which was a short gap solution at best.  
   
They’d been living on borrowed time.  
   
Felicity was more than just a part time CEO. She wanted to make a difference to the company by day and she wanted to save the city by night.  
   
And so did he.  
   
He wasn’t the type of man to abandon his friends to danger or turn his back on the city during its time of need. And he wanted a chance to do things differently this time. To be more than just a weapon firing from the shadows. He wanted to be a symbol of hope to Star City. An inspiration. A talisman to ward away the darkness that had descended.  
   
But in order to do that – to be that type of hero – he had to deflect the darkness in himself. He needed to learn how to fight in the light, without sacrificing any more of his soul to the cause.  
   
Last year he’d relinquished his happiness – his life beyond the hood – because he’d believed it was the only way to succeed. He’d been the Arrow and nothing more.  
   
Over the summer, he’d just been…Oliver. He’d discovered the type of man that was left behind when the Arrow was stripped away and some of the traumas of his past were put to rest. And he liked that version of himself –  
a work in progress but…lighter, more carefree, more willing to embrace happiness and feel deserving of it.  
   
_The Arrow._  
  
_Oliver Queen_.  
   
He needed to be both. He needed to stop compartmentalising his life and become whole again. The fighter and the man in love. The hero as well as the friend and brother.  
   
_The Green Arrow._  
   
And until he could do that…until he knew he could be effective in this new guise and still retain his sense of self…he couldn’t dangle a promise of forever in front of Felicity.  
   
So he didn’t propose.  
   
And he wouldn’t…for now.  
   
While Felicity’s attention was on the TV – and his earlier broadcast to Star City - he hastily hid his mother’s engagement ring in a glass bowl on the table in front of him, making a mental note to move it to a more secure location tomorrow.  
   
“You know, I hate to disappoint you, but that speech was pretty hopeful,” she said, turning away from the news report while shrugging out of her cardigan.  
   
“Why would that disappoint me?”  
   
“Oh, you know how you said you didn’t know how to be a hero without the darkness…” she teased, her thoughts obviously mirroring his own. “And I know how you hate being wrong…”  
   
On this he was very willing to be wrong, he thought as he bent down to capture her lips with his own.  
   
And maybe he was. After all, they’d survived their first battle with the darkness intact. He’d suited up, fought the ghosts and saved a lot of innocent lives.  
   
And now he was kissing the woman he loved, in their new home.  
   
Life as the Green Arrow was getting off to a pretty good start…  
   
___________  
 

  
“ _Six months ago, the Arrow died. But what he stood for didn’t.”_  
   
Martin dropped his briefcase by the door and toed off his shoes. As he padded in the direction of the blaring television he loosened his tie and rolled his neck. It had been a long week. And whilst he loved his job, and found it rewarding, it could definitely take its toll.  
   
_“It lived on in the heroes who took up his mantle. People who believe that this city should never descend into hopelessness.”_  
   
He found his wife standing in front of the TV, hands on her hips and head cocked to the side as she watched the broadcast. Only half listening to the gruff, modulated words echoing around him, Martin came up behind her and threaded his arms around her waist.  
   
_“Who believe although light is full of darkness, that darkness can be the key to find light.”_  
   
“Evening,” he mumbled into her neck as he bent to kiss her on the neck.

“Shhh,” Mary said, shrugging him away from the sensitive spot behind her ear, “I’m listening to this.”  
   
“Listening to what?” Hooking his chin on her shoulder so they stood cheek-to-cheek, Martin turned his attention to the TV.  
   
“It’s a broadcast from the new vigilante in Star City. But I think it’s the same guy as before - I’d recognise that jaw line anywhere.”  
   
_“And tonight I am declaring my intention to stand with them, to fight for this city...”_  
   
Even masked and shaded by the hood, the man did seem oddly familiar…  
  
_“To be the symbol of hope that the Arrow never was.”_  
   
If anyone could spot the Arrow, it was Mary - his wife was fascinated by the stories of the crime fighting teams that had cropped up over the past few years. She’d been horrified at the way Star City had turned against it’s hero, and she’d been devastated to hear he’d been killed in prison.

“Day in and day out, you try to help people overcome their traumatic experiences,” she’d explained when he’d asked her why their home was suddenly over-run by The Flash memorabilia and clippings about the Arrow. “But what if there had been someone around to stop their trauma from happening…if someone had been there to prevent it, to save them…I just think that what they do is so brave.”  
   
_“I am…the Green Arrow.”_  
   
At the end of the impassioned speech, the camera pulled back, allowing a glimpse of the Green Arrow, fully outfitted in tactical leather armour and attached weaponry. Just before the image faded to black, Martin’s attention was drawn to the man’s left hand. The movement was subtle, but he appeared to be rolling his thumb over his index finger…  
   
A nervous tick.  
   
Martin straightened up in shock, his mind flipping back through the clues laid out over the past couple of months.  
   
The deaths…  
   
The trauma…  
   
The guilt…  
   
The couple’s sudden retreat to Star City…  
   
_“I’m not a soldier, Martin”_  
  
_“Close enough, Oliver.”_  
   
“Son of a bitch,” Martin whispered in awe.  
   
“What is it, Sweetheart?” Mary asked turning in his arms to look up at him.    
   
He shook his head.  “Nothing, I…I was just thinking about that guy - the Green Arrow – and what he must have been through.”  
   
“What do you mean?”  
   
“Well, to choose to put yourself in danger like that…to risk your life for strangers, with no thought of reward or recognition…”  
   
“You think he’s atoning for something?”  
   
“Maybe…” he replied. “Or maybe he’s just a hero.”  
   
“Hmmm,” she responded. “Whatever the reason, I hope he’ll be okay.”  
   
“I hope so too,” he whispered, thinking of the man he’d grown to like and admire, and the young woman who loved him. “I hope so too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! So here ends the longest story I've ever written. I hope you enjoyed it!  
> Thanks to my lovely Beta, Lisa, for her help and encouragement.


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